


Matchmaker

by HastaLux, Mottlemoth



Series: Marmalade [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anthea is a BAMF, Backdraft Burn, Cat Cafe, Cats, Feline Matchmaking, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Greg Has A Twin, Greg's Ex is the Worst, Happy Ending, Lonely/Vulnerable Greg, M/M, Protective/Confident Mycroft, Quick Alternating POV, Strangers to Lovers, Who is Slow Burn I Don't Know Her, Zero to Married in Sixty Seconds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-05-21 01:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 69,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14905725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Still reeling from his divorce, Greg has begun frequenting a local cat cafe just to feel a little less lonely. Mycroft stumbles into the same cafe, having spied a remarkably handsome man through the window. One very special cat thinks they really ought to meet...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been created via roleplay between HastaLux (as Mycroft) and Mottlemoth (as Greg). We hope you like it as much as we do!

At first, Greg only dared to visit the café when his nieces were staying.

It felt like the sort of thing you can do when accompanied by two little girls. Both Sophie and Lily are mad about cats, and the opening of a cat café just around the corner from Uncle Greg's flat seemed to be a sign sent from heaven. As the weeks have gone by, he's become pretty certain it's the main reason they want to see him so much lately - but he can't bring himself to mind.

The truth is that he's fallen in love with the place, too.

It looks like a thousand other cafés in London - cream walls, birchwood tables, squashy grey sofas and magazines in a rack on the wall - just with the addition of cats. They have six residents right now, he's learned in casual conversation with the girl behind the counter. All six are from Cats Protection in Archway; they're looking to get a couple more.

Nearly every visit to Uncle Greg's includes a visit to the café now. The girls like to drink hot chocolate and play with the cats, while Greg watches and tries to pretend he's not as delighted as they are. He grew up with cats, though his life since has led him from one cat-free path to the next, without really meaning to - university, first; travelling for a few years; police training, renting all over the place, and then Karen, who had a fur allergy. Even now, a year after divorce, his quiet one-bed flat isn't any place to keep a pet. He lives on the ninth floor. Any cat he brought home would have to live indoors all its life, and spend most of it alone. Some weeks at work, when big cases hit the crucial stage, he clocks sixty or seventy hours. He can't ask a living creature to put up with that, just so he can have someone to come home to at night.

It means the café has been a bit of a godsend, really.

He's spent a few months telling himself it was just for the girls, and it was all just a bit of fun - then another month or two saying he might drop by one weekend for coffee.

Finally, midway through his traditional fortnight of enforced annual leave in March, after three days of lying on his sofa watching Netflix and eating Pringles, he tells himself he needs to stretch his legs. A walk and a cappuccino will do him good - even just an hour outside the house.

He swaps his pyjama bottoms for jeans, locks the flat behind him, and heads out to the café.

It's nerve-wracking, walking in without the girls. The strange conviction that he shouldn't really be here by himself is hard to shake. Most people seem to come as a couple, or with friends; Greg doesn't want to stand out.

_Just having a cappuccino. Reading the paper. Looking at something other than my laptop for a while... that's all._

It doesn't matter if the cats ignore him. He's not really here for them. This just happens to be his nearest café, and the cats just happen to be around.

The pink-haired barista makes him his coffee, and asks after his nieces with a smile. Inwardly cringing that they know him now, Greg chats for a while then takes his coffee to a sofa in the window, hoping it keeps him out of the action. _Can always people-watch for a bit,_ he thinks.

_At least I'm not still lying on the sofa in my pants, surrounded by Pringles tubes..._

Barely has he settled when he feels a soft _flump_ on the sofa beside him - and glances across to find that he's been joined.

She's a little calico, soft even to look at, with round green eyes and snowy-white paws. She looks at Greg, wary and curious at once, as she settles gently on her haunches beside him.

Greg does the only thing it seems polite to do.

"H'lo, princess." He offers her a hand; she sniffs it, delicately. A moment later, her gentle pink tongue rasps the back of his finger. He recognises her vaguely from his visits with the girls, but she's never really come over before. He thought she was a little haughty, a little quiet - often sleeping somewhere in a sunny spot, waking only to wander off if people stroke her.

Gently he reaches for the heart-shaped tag on her collar. It's habit, coming with the girls; they always want to know. The cat doesn't move, letting him look.

As he turns the tag over, he smiles.

"'Marmalade', huh? Suits you."

Marmalade continues to watch him, waiting. Greg smiles, reaches for his coffee and takes a sip.

"Am I in your spot?" he asks. Marmalade blinks, gazing with great interest at the mug. "Pretty sure you can't have cappuccino, princess... don't start making eyes at my flapjack, either."

Realising he's started chatting to her as casually as if the girls were here, Greg flushes and tells himself to get a grip. She can't understand him. She's a cat. She wants the warm spot on the sofa, or she's hoping he's ordered a ham panini. That's all.

As Greg eats his flapjack, drinks his coffee and watches people going by on the street, Marmalade watches him. Whatever she wants, she seems pretty determined to have it.

Testing a theory, he takes his plate back to the counter and orders a fresh coffee - but when he returns, she hasn't nicked his spot. She watches him come back towards her, her eyes oddly gentle, and waits until he sits himself down.

She then stands up, arches her back with a little twirl of her tail, and invites herself onto his lap.

"You sure?" he says, as she clambers onto him. He wonders if she's just trying to reach the arm of the sofa. She then begins the traditional turning circle of a settling cat, makes three graceful rotations and deems him an adequate seat.

Settling to sit, she gazes up at him very pointedly.

Greg can't fight a smile. It's the most insistent look he's had from someone in years; he knows at once that she'll wait all day if she has to.

Gently - careful with his clumsy copper's hands - he starts to rub her head, just circling with his thumb.

She butts against him, pleased, and lifts her chin.

Five minutes later, she settles herself against his chest and falls asleep.

Smiling, Greg watches his second coffee go cold. He strokes her head as she naps.

The pink-haired barista - and the rest of the café's patrons - seem pretty affected by this development. Marmalade's an attractive cat, bright orange stripes and soft white and glossy splotches of black. From some of the glances he's now getting, Greg has a weird feeling the two of them are being taken as a pair.

He only meant to stay an hour.

In the end, he stays for nearly two - embarrassed as hell, but unable to bring himself to shift Marmalade off his lap. She's too happy. He can't do it. The barista keeps on fetching Greg coffee, placing it down with a fond glance and not a word.

When he returns to the café five days later, it's almost to prove that it didn't really happen.

He buys a cappuccino and a brownie, takes them to the sofa in the window and sits down, scrolling through the empty message inbox on his phone. He's back to work in the morning; he's somehow spent two weeks doing nothing. His few hopeful plans for drinks with friends have all fallen through, and he's felt pathetic trying to chase them up. In the end, he let them go.

People warned him. _Our friends_ couldn't stay as _our friends;_ they'd have to become _my friends,_ and you don't get much say in whose _my friends_ they become.

It's been a year now, anyway. He knows he should be used to it.

He'll be fine when he's back at work. It keeps him occupied; it stops him looking too hard at the rest of his life.

As he finishes the last of his brownie, and moves the plate back to the coffee table, a blur of black and orange hops gently into Greg's lap.

An hour later, when the pink-haired barista brings him another coffee, she finally dares to say something.

"Think you've made a friend," she says, with a smile.

Greg looks down at the little cat asleep on his chest. _Amazing,_ he thinks. "Maybe I have..."

"She doesn't go for many people," the barista admits, stacking up his empty cups for him. "We weren't sure if she was happy here, to be honest... guess she's just picky."

As she heads back to the counter, Greg strokes the orange 'M' on Marmalade's forehead with his thumb. She doesn't stir. She just sleeps on, her little face full of peace, her soft body rising and falling with his breath.

_Nice to be special to someone, at least._

God knows it's been a while.

 

*

 

Marmalade soon comes straight over when he drops by - which he knows is more often than he should. He starts going every Sunday morning, telling himself it's good to have habits that break up the week. After three Sundays, Marmalade starts waiting on the sofa for him. He arrives one weekend in early May to find a family occupying their usual couch, and Marmalade standing on the counter, looking aghast at them and all their shopping bags.

Greg orders a cappuccino, scoops her gently into his arms, and takes her to an armchair in the back.

Within five minutes, she's asleep on his chest.

He starts looking forward to Sundays more than anything. One weekend, Scotland Yard holds a charity football match which he gets roped into. He plays terribly, slips over at one point, and eventually ends up in the staff e-newsletter in his shorts, covered in mud.

The day after, he leaves his flat early and calls by the café, his heart strangely tight in his chest.

Marmalade comes sprinting between the tables, her ginger tail high.

She leaps at once onto the sofa.

The truth is that Greg now loves the bloody cat café - and he loves the cat who lives there. It makes him happy on a fundamental level. Human beings spend the week shooting and stabbing and maiming each other, trying to cover it up. On the weekend, they open a café where you can be adopted by a cat. It makes him feel better that people do that. It makes him happy that there's a place for it in the world. He finds that when he's sitting on the couch in the window with Marmalade, and she's warm and asleep on his chest, it almost feels like the world can't be all that bad.

It doesn't matter what's happening at work. It doesn't matter that his ex still rings his flat and hangs up twice a week, hoping to catch a woman's voice answering his phone. It doesn't matter that she took every friend they'd ever made. It doesn't matter that some of them now cross the street to avoid him.

Doesn't matter that he's bloody lonely.

It doesn't matter at all.

When a cat decides that you're hers, nothing can really make you sad.

Most of the staff know him now. (Mortifying - but he loves it too much to awkwardly stop coming.) They sneak him free coffee now and then, and if he's around near to closing time, there's sometimes free cake in it too.

"Don't take this the wrong way," the owner says to him, one rainy Tuesday, as she bags up the last of the caramel shortbread for him to take home, "but you're worth it just for the advertising."

Greg fights a smile, rubbing under Marmalade's fuzzy white chin. "'Advertising'?"

"You and her," she says, "on that couch." She smiles, lopsided. "We get really busy when you're in. People going past see you two in the window, and suddenly it's not a weird idea anymore..."

Grinning, Greg scruffles Marmalade's head. She butts up against his hand, and heaves a sleepy stretch.

"Oi, missus... I have to go home now."

Marmalade opens her eyes, blinking. She gives him a look that suggests she can't imagine why he'd do such a thing.

"I know, princess..." he murmurs, lifts her gently off his lap, and transfers her to the other end of the sofa. "I'll come after work on Wednesday, how's that? It's late opening then... you can sit on me all you want."

Marmalade's still dubious - but she consents to let him go home for now, with a begrudging slow blink of her wide green eyes.

"Listen," he says, nervously, as the owner hands him a bag of shortbread, "you guys... don't _mind_ me being here all the time, do you? I don't want you to think I'm a weirdo."

Her smile lights her eyes.

"Don't worry for a second," she says. "You're not the only one."

 

* * *

 

Pouring rain, of course. Mycroft glares out from the sanctity of his brolly, repelling passersby and the droplets scattering off rain jackets with his mere presence. The trade talks are going nowhere _again_ , and if his American counterpart does not immediately start acting as though he iisn't trying to sabotage the whole effort Mycroft is going to make sure no one ever finds the body.

He spots the incoming offensive moments before it happens, but his reflexes aren't what they used to be- a wide spray of street water thrown up from a passing lorry drenches him from the shoulder down with nary a hint of apology.

_Lovely._

Stalking under a nearby awning to shake his coat and call for a car, Mycroft’s gaze could quite possibly vaporize the offending liquid from his person. He'd need to go home to change, this is no way to turn up to a meeting. He huffs as he waits and glances into the cafe at his back. Perhaps he could wait just inside...

Mycroft narrows his eyes, blinks, and looked again. Yes, there is a man on the other side of the glass, and yes, said man is extremely eye-catching. Smiling and talking - must be on the phone, as Mycroft doesn't see anyone else nearby - with thick silvery hair that he could just run his hands through....

Turning away quickly before he can be caught staring, Mycroft takes another look over his own tarnished apparel. Well. He can't go in there looking like a sodden cat, not with such a fine example of the male form in the window. He'd just wait for the car. And perhaps see if he can make this cafe part of his route the next time he steps out.

*

The next time Mycroft takes a break (mandatory, per Anthea, re: the continued health of the Americans) from his meetings, he ensures his path takes him by the cafe- but no fine silver hair awaits him in the window. Ah, well. At least he can have a double espresso to get him through what promises to be an extremely long day.

Scents of varying coffee accents drift over, offering a degree of relaxation. Vanilla and hazelnut, chocolate and caramel. He sits by the window and settles in, meditating over his email, when something soft presses against his hip. “I beg your- oh.” There is a cat staring at him with large green eyes, head slightly tilted, querying.

He looks about. Do people know there is a cat in here? Does it belong to someone?

Actually- there are _several_ cats, now that he is paying attention, curled up in laps and on finely fluffed beds and even one playing with something glittery and dangly in a corner.

His eyes finally drift to the signage by the door. _Cats sponsored by Cats Protection in Archway._ Ah. Quite. Intentional cats, then.

The calico paws his hip again and he looks down, plucking up her little heart-shaped tag. “Marmalade, is it?” She blinks at him, circles, and settles in a coil of cat fluff, her chin resting on his thigh.

Mycroft’s face smiles and he is momentarily surprised it remembers the movement.

“I can’t stay here all day, mind,” he whispers at her. That seems to be the state of it, talking to a cat on his break. Anthea had been saying he would crack eventually, but he had assumed she was joking. Now he isn’t so sure. Yet Marmalade just purrs. He runs his fingers between her ears, grinning more when she rolls her head into the touch.

There had been cats when he was little, barn cats that hunted mice and birds and occasionally rabbits when they were feeling ambitious, some nice, some less so. Outdoor, country cats. He doesn’t think many of them would have liked London.

The contented warmth at his hip remains there until he is regretfully forced to gently dislodge her and she gives him a look he is absolutely certain he’d seen on the Queen. “Apologies, your majesty. Your humble subject does need to return to work.” Still talking to the cat, apparently. Mycroft vows to refrain from mentioning this to any of his assistants.

He feels… badly, leaving Marmalade behind. Odd. Mycroft rarely regrets anything. He doesn’t have the time.

*

Some days later he returns, having been blessedly released early as the talks finally, _finally_ ended. Mycroft deserves a brownie and a cocoa. Having acquired both, he heads to the same comfortable position in the window and is pleasantly surprised when Marmalade materializes beside him seconds later. “Hello again.” She considers him, flicking her tail. “Have you been keeping the other cats in line?”

Two paws clamber onto his leg and her soft head butts into his wrist. “No brownie for you, I’m afraid.” Taking that for encouragement, she climbs all the way on, circled, and plops herself into his lap. Mycroft grins to himself and carefully draws out his laptop so he doesn’t disturb her. There are plenty of not-entirely-classified things he can do from the comfortable bubble of a cafe, and here seemed suddenly like a much better option than alone at home with a glass of whiskey.

Despite the ridiculousness of being a man in an expensive suit in a cat cafe- and he did earn more than one odd look- Mycroft continues to visit. His schedule is erratic- occasionally he pops by for lunch, occasionally after work if he’s been able to leave before the cafe closed, but Marmalade doesn’t seem bothered when he shows up. She’d simply plant herself next to or on his person and purr until she falls asleep. Once or twice he even brings a book instead of work, which feels rather indulgent. He doesn’t spot the handsome man with the silver hair, and eventually he forgets that’s why he came in to begin with- his only thoughts of the cafe now are occupied by soft fluff under his fingers and a hot drink in his hand.

He invests in a lint brush for the office and one for his home after Anthea makes a comment about a tuft of fur left clinging to his leg, but she doesn’t question it further. Mycroft does notice, however, an effort made to find longer breaks in his day than there used to be.

The staff learns his order. Espresso in the afternoon, cocoa in the evening, and they are particularly generous with the cocoa if he stays all the way until close. He’d taken them to be somewhat intimidated by him- most people were- but the pink haired barista starts slipping him the occasional free refill or bit of spare pastry even though she still calls him “sir.”

“You don’t get much of the suit and tie crowd here, do you?” he eventually asks when she comes to offer a refill of his cocoa, peering over the top of a worn copy of _The Grey King._

“Nah, not really, but it’s not a bad thing. Men in suits with cats is one of those internet-breaking things, so it’s good for business.”

 _I don’t know what that means_ , Mycroft thinks, but he nods politely all the same. “There aren’t many people on their lonesome here, though.”

“Oh, I don’t know. We get a few.” She smiles and wanders back behind the counter.

Mycroft glances down, brushing his hand over Marmalade’s silky coat. _Men in suits with cats._ “Is that it? You like good tailoring?”

She trills at him for interrupting her nap and a grin quirks up the edge of his lip. “I know. But I must be off soon.” He leans in, conspiratorial, stroking the pouches of her cheeks. “I am going out of the country for a bit, but I shall return posthaste. Is that acceptable?” Her grumbled purr indicates that is not, actually, but Mycroft can’t do a thing about it. Even if he does briefly contemplate the logistics of sneaking a cat onto a plane. “Soon, your majesty.”

His flight returns on a Wednesday in the afternoon. Mycroft doesn’t expect to want to do a thing- the meetings had been lengthy and intensive- but the jet lag proves to be an irritation forbidding him either from resting or working, and he finds himself walking back to the cafe with a book in hand at just about 5 o’clock.

  



	2. Chapter 2

It's been a crap day so far. The Cunningham case looks like it's going to fold through lack of evidence, and Cunningham will be back on the streets in days. It took Greg six months to track the bastard down.

Looks like it's not going to make any difference in the end.

Trying to clear his head, he tried going for a coffee this afternoon. Marmalade's café (as he thinks of it) is too far from work, so he dropped into a chain instead. As soon as he stepped through the door, he knew he'd made a mistake.

His ex's sister was standing at the counter, enormous designer sunglasses indoors, tiny handbag dangling over her arm. Greg's stomach flipped at once, realising he couldn't exactly turn and walk out. His hopes that she'd make a point of ignoring him were dashed to pieces in an instant, as she came hurrying over with a grin the size of a moon. She insisted on hugging him, leaving a coral lipstick mark on his jaw, then joining him at his table.

She made greedy conversation for nearly twenty minutes - how well Karen's doing; how great her new boyfriend is; how tired Greg seems today, and is he sleeping okay?

"I'm sorry you're having a tough time, sugar," she crooned as she said goodbye, squeezing him around the neck, all designer perfume and tickly starched blonde hair. "I'll give your best to Karen. _Lovely_ seeing you."

At quarter to four, a work incident kicked off that's now kept him there until six - and as he leaves the building, heading for the tube, he almost decides to go straight home.

Two thoughts take him to see Marmalade: first, that he's on a promise to her - a realisation so tragic that it almost makes him smile; second, that Karen will take him meeting her sister as an excuse to call. _"Lucy said she ran into you today. Thought I'd ring and say hi. How are things?"_ She'll want to hear how crap he's doing from his own mouth.

Greg's not sure he can cope with that tonight.

The sight of the approaching café makes his heart lighten for the first time all day. As he gets closer, he realised the sofa's taken - something sitting there, reading. _S'fine. We can sit somewhere else._

_Looks like a suit, anyway - won't be hanging around long. City type. Wandered in by accident, maybe._

_Nice suit, too._

And a nice guy inside it.

 _Posh boy._ The thought brings a faint smile to Greg's face. The man in the window is the type that always sent him pretty weak at the knees, when he was young - back when he thought the world could be fun and easy. He likes suits. He likes people who have the authority needed to wear them properly. When Greg wears a full suit, he looks like he's hoping to apply for a loan.

Marmalade will be fretting that someone's on their sofa. Greg's heart squeezes a little as he reaches for the door handle. He's missed her today. It's ridiculous how much he's thought about her, just sitting with her quietly, brushing through her fur.

As he opens the door, with a tinkle of the bell, he gives a smile and a guilty wave to the pink-haired barista. She grins, winking back. There's no immediate sign of Marmalade - but she'll be around somewhere. She always is.

Heading to the counter, Greg orders a mocha and a brownie. It's a chocolate day. Still no sign of Marmalade - and after his crap day, he starts to worry she's maybe ill or something. He hopes she's alright.

Stalling for time, trying to settle himself, he glances over at the Posh Boy in the window.

His heart lurches immediately into his throat.

A very posh boy. He's magnificent - reading a posh novel.

And he has Marmalade fast asleep on his knee.

_Jesus._

The strength of the emotional response takes Greg's breath for a second. As heat and cold prickle over the back of his neck, and his heart begins to pound with distresses, he realises what major incident of his life this is reminding him of - and it makes things exponentially worse.

 _Shit. Shit, shit._ He breathes in, sliding up onto a stool at the counter, and pulls a nearby newspaper towards him for something to cover his distress.

_Christ, Lestrade. It's a cat. She's not cheating on you. She's not even your cat._

He barely notices the barista handing him his coffee. He thanks her on auto-pilot, then pretends to get comfortable, pretending to read.

The words don't mean a thing. His eyes move across them as pointless shapes in strings.

_Jesus. I'm pathetic._

_How the fuck has this happened?_

The coffee's too hot to drink. Greg drinks it anyway, desperate to seem normal - to look like he's come here for a quick drink and a glance at the paper, and nothing more.

_For Christ's sake, what's wrong with me? Thinking she..._

It's a cat. It's just a cat, and he needs to see someone. His social life's become a cat. It's good this had happened - good he can take a long, hard look at how pathetic he's actually become. This is good. It's good his heart is hammering against his ribs and he feels sick. It's good to get shocked out of this.

_Probably doesn't know me from any other human._

_God almighty, I'm a loser._

The brownie doesn't taste of anything. It's just texture in his mouth, and even small bites are painful to swallow. He feels like everyone's staring at him. He feels like he's somehow twice his size, too big to be here, too alone to be here.

_Down your coffee and get out of here, you bloody loser. Go watch Netflix in your pants._

_Christ, excited about seeing a cat._

_Like she's your friend. Like she gives two shits that you exist._

"You alright today?" the pink-haired barista asks, tentatively - and as Greg glances up at her, he sees it all written on her face: all his own fragility, how lonely he's become.

For some reason, her concern only makes it hurt more.

"Long day at work," he says, faking a smile - and that hurts too. "You know how it is."

She smiles a little, not believing it for a second, and wanders over to the mugs.

A minute later, she puts a fresh mocha down at his elbow without a word. She's dusted a cocoa pawprint across the top of it for him.

Greg's heart falls as he looks down at it.

_Great. Now I have to drink this._

 

*

 

Mycroft turns the pages slowly, his mind operating at a bit less than maximum efficiency and still not quite in the right time zone. A cottony feeling over his entire body has stranded him somewhere over the Atlantic, not quite certain whether it should be in Vancouver or London. This set of talks had gone poorly, the Americans and the Chinese sniping at each other, the Japanese feeling slighted that the Americans weren’t paying the most attention to the them, and the North Koreans making regular inflammatory remarks over their exclusion from the table. There was more than one point when he found himself slowly stirring his tea while standing next to one of the Canadians, a woman who shared his ill regard for the public dramatics of other governments and provided the occasional quiet remark of comedy at the expense of the others, and daydreaming about cocoa and brownies and a warm soft bit of fluff in his lap.

Another cocoa appears in front of him, delivered by the pink-haired barista without her usual smile. Something must have gone awry, perhaps a troublesome customer, but Mycroft has long trained himself not to analyze people he encounters outside of work and he is quite sure if there was something amiss she must have friends with which to discuss it.

He leans forward to appreciate the scent of the cocoa and Marmalade stirs, rolling her head up and eyeing him. “My apologies, did I disturb you?” he smiles down, running a finger under her chin.

Paws balance on him as she takes a lengthy stretch and casts her gaze about the room. She looks up again, delivers a poignant “Mrrrp” and bounds to the floor.

“Hmm.” Mycroft can’t help but follow the line of her tail across the room. She’s likely heading to her box and will no doubt be back shortly- _oh, lord._ He of the attractive silver hair is back and Marmalade is marching right toward him.

Ah. Of course. Mycroft had sat in the same seat the other man used the first time he came in, Marmalade probably preferred the couch because of _him_ and simply settled on Mycroft as a suitable alternative when her initial choice wasn’t available.

Well, that’s alright. He’s used to being second best when it came to anyone actually _caring_ , even his parents _._ It shouldn’t needle at him that a cat would feel the same.

_Don’t be jealous, Mycroft, it’s unseemly._

He watches over the top of his book as the man turns with a frankly astonishing smile to regard Marmalade. Younger than Mycroft had thought from the back, expressive, warm eyes he could fall right into- no wonder the cat likes him, everyone else probably does too. Even the baristas are watching the other man, smiling gently, whispering to each other. Likely debating the merits of slipping him one of their numbers.

Mycroft sighs as Marmalade butts her head against a leg other than his own and turns the page without reading anything at all.

 

*

 

Greg's heart strains as he catches the jingle of her bell. The relief's overwhelming. It shouldn't be, and he knows it - but Karen's sister's left him feeling fragile as a paper ship.

And holy fuck, it's good to see someone come towards him.

Happy to see him, like they missed him. Nobody misses him anymore. If he knocked himself out on Friday night, nobody would find him until nine on Monday.

"Hey, princess...!"

She curls around his leg, her tail twirling happily for attention. Greg bends down to tickle her on the head - but she gives a soft trill and slinks out of reach of his hand. She swirls around the next bar stool, then weaves between the metal legs to come back to him, allowing him a few seconds' scratch of her fluffy chin.

His stupid heart's now thumping in his throat.

_Thank Christ._

_Shit. This shouldn't mean so much to me. This isn't good._

_She's all I've got, though._

As he bends down to pick her up, Marmalade wriggles through his fingertips and jingles away a few steps - then comes back, circles his stool and once more evades his hands, prancing off towards their usual couch.

She then glances back over her shoulder at him, in a look that he knows very well. It's an expression common to most of her kind, but Marmalade in particular has mastered it.

It says, clear as a bell, _come here now please._

Greg bites down into his smile. _Princess, you can't kick the guy off his couch because you want me there..._

"Pssh-pssh," he tries, rubbing his fingertips towards her.

Marmalade's having none of it. She curls her tail, arches her elegant little back, and slips beneath the coffee table near to the sofa.

As she springs back onto the poor man's lap, knocking the book from his hands, Greg tries his hardest not to smile. She trills again, pleased with herself - then without a flicker of shame turns to stare across the café at Greg.

For the second time, Greg gets The Look. _Come here now please._

As the posh boy follows her gaze, Greg feels his heart kick quietly into double-time.

_Jesus, those eyes._

He gives an awkward grin - the sort of smile you can share with a stranger when strange things are happening.

"Sorry," he says, flushing. It's not a big café; there aren't enough people around for it to drown out his voice. "She, um - recognises me, I think..."

Marmalade harrumphs.

She turns her round green eyes up to Mycroft, and presents The Look.

_Make him come here please._

 

*

 

Mycroft forces his eyes back to his novel. He isn't going to look over and be jealous about a cat. He will just read his book and-

The book is very suddenly dislodged, nearly colliding with his cocoa as Marmalade leaps at him from the floor and trills, staring at him. "Manners, your ladyship," Mycroft whispers at her when he has recombobulated himself, a sense of relief that she came back forcing him to smile even if did just rather make a display of himself trying to keep his book from invading his drink.   _Very well coordinated, Mycroft, well done._

She turns, pointedly, and stares back across the room. Mycroft looks up, meeting the dark gaze of the handsome argent specimen. _Oh, dear, he's smiling. Smile back. Do NOT blush._ His voice has the sort of slightly rough tone that has successfully made Mycroft quiver since his school days. _Mercy, please._

Looking down, he is greeted with a demanding set of green eyes and a very pointed mew. He swallows and looks back up, nodding to the other end of the couch. "Ah- there's enough room. If you like." Bending to the demands of a cat. What has become of him.

Satisfied with his effort, Marmalade strides off his lap and sits beside him, still staring down the man at the counter. She could probably teach some of his people hostile diplomacy tactics with that gaze. Nations would quake in the sight of it. Somehow it makes Mycroft smile.

 

*

 

_Christ, Marmalade... what are you doing to me?_

Greg knows, beyond doubt, that she'll sit there and stare at him until he gets himself over here. She might be a shy and reserved young lady on the surface, but she brooks no refusal once she's made up her mind.

And it looks like she's made it up now. Greg and the Posh Boy are going to sit together - and that's that.

As he gathers up his coffee, grinning awkwardly, Greg takes another glance at Marmalade's other man. _I'll give you credit, princess... you've got my type spot-on._ She couldn't have picked better if he'd paid her. The suit, the novel, the crisp and educated accent... just looking at the guy makes Greg feel fifteen years younger.

As he comes over, bemused and still feeling like an idiot, Marmalade watches Greg with a curling tail. He puts his coffee down, takes a nervous seat at the end of the sofa, and has a lapful of Marmalade before he's even settled back properly.

"You don't ask much, miss, do you?" he says, as she starts to purr and paddle at his shirt. He supposes if the Posh Boy already knows he takes orders from a cat, hearing him chat to her won't be such a surprise.

Giving the stranger a guilty sideways smile, Greg says,

"Sorry. You - probably wanted peace and quiet to read your book. Now you've got a friend."

Marmalade's now lying on his chest, gazing at Mycroft with insistence as she purrs.

 

*

 

"Oh- no, I don't mind." _And I can see you making eyes, young lady. I am not petting you while you are climbing his shirt._

This close, Mycroft can't help but start to take in details- the dip in his finger where a wedding band used to reside, scuff marks on his shoes that said he often walked, probably for work. The loving way he strokes Marmalade, smiling straight through his eyes. _Christ. Only a cat would ensure I had to sit next to the handsomest man I've spoken with in years._ "She's quite insistent, isn't she?" As if to accentuate the point, she sticks out a paw toward Mycroft and then brushes it over her ear demonstratively. _Pet me._

 _No._ Mycroft arches a brow at her and she flicks her tail. Turning back to his cocoa, he takes a long sip, watching them out of the corner of his eye and thinking he just might return to his book. He makes it about half a page before a paw lands on his sleeve and he looks down with a bemused expression. "Yes, your ladyship?"

The flick of her tail and that solid green stare make it clear that she is entirely disappointed in him that she must handle this herself. Claws lace through edge of his jacket and she scoots back, pulling his wrist until she is safely back on the stranger's lap. _Pet me._ Mycroft sighs and extends the hook of his fingers for her to nuzzle against, that seems less awkward that rubbing her over the poor man's lap. "It seems we both serve a demanding mistress."

 

*

 

 _He calls her 'your ladyship'. I call her 'princess'._ It's a small thing, Greg thinks - but for some reason, it makes his heart jump gently behind his ribs.   
  
He wonders how long the stranger's known Marmalade - if she took a liking to this guy the same way she did to Greg. He won't put it past her. She certainly seems determined to have fuss from the pair of them, anyway.   
  
Something about sitting with her together feels strangely intimate. _Our cat._   
  
_Christ. This is weird._   
  
_Christ, I like it._   
  
He laughs sheepishly at the stranger's comment, grinning as Marmalade finally gets what she wanted.   
  
"Yeah, she's... kinda hard to say no to..." He glances up at the man beside him, dark eyes a little bashful and bright, both guarded and open at once. "Surprised she doesn't follow me home some days. I - live just round the corner."

He watches with a grin as Marmalade squirms onto her back in his lap, presenting her fluffy under-tummy for tickles.

"Thought it was a daft idea at first," he says. "A cat cafe... grows on you, though."

 

*

 

"Oh yes?" _If she doesn't follow you home, any of the baristas might._ Mycroft might have considered it himself, fifteen years ago when he was a bit more daring with his personal life. Still, it feels... comfortable, running his hand over the delicious softness of cat belly while she’s being held in the arms of this- his?- handsome stranger. And it is nice to pretend at having this sort of closeness, like it isn't an utter rarity in his world.   
  
He scoots a bit closer, just to make it less awkward when he reaches, or so he tells himself, the book firmly set aside.   
  
"I didn't realize it was a cat cafe at first. I simply- desired some espresso." _And may have been trying to have a look at you._ Something else which he pledges himself he is going to refrain from as much as possible at the office where he has access to all that lovely CCTV. No one looks well on stalking. "I was a bit surprised when she informed me I would be serving as her pillow."   
  
Mycroft chances another speculative glance at the man instead of Marmalade. _Lord. Look at him._ He can feel a flush just tinging his cheeks and quickly looks away, finding his cocoa and sipping it to prevent anything idiotic from slipping between his lips.   
  
"Do you... visit frequently?" A failed effort in retaining idiocy, apparently. He blames the jet lag that he cannot come up with anything more eloquent, hiding a cringe in his cup.

 

*

 

 _Christ... was that 'do you come here often?' Surely not._   
  
No, no way. Look at him, Lestrade. He's posh to the bone. He's out of your league, man. Reel it in.   
  
"Yeah, I... maybe a bit too frequently..." Greg can't fight his grin. "Started bringing my nieces just as a treat, but... here every Sunday morning now. I mean, the coffee's good. I like the atmosphere and it's close to home."   
  
He looks down at Marmalade - still upturned on his lap, paws folded, her plush tummy fur still ruffled.   
  
"S'probably enough excuses, princess, is it?" he says, and she squirms insistently. Obedient, Greg takes over the duties of tummy-tickling while the stranger drinks, wondering in the back of his mind how he's swung from despair to happiness so fast. He's not met someone new in months.   
  
It's nice, he realises.

Talking with someone who doesn't know.   
  
Sometimes Greg feels like the divorce put a stain on him - like a heavy cloud now follows him around, and all the people who were once happy to spot him in the street now see him as _Greg, who's going through divorce._ Every time, they make the same pained inquiry: _how are things?_ \- with the little wince - and if he says he's fine, they don't really believe him.   
  
He doesn't miss Karen. Things were over long before they were over. Not having to deal with her mind-games and her emotional storms is a blessed relief. Life's quiet now, and it's not so bad just him.   
  
He just wishes she hadn't taken everyone else with her.

It was a punishment for him finally growing the balls to leave. _'If I can't have you, nobody can.'_ She never did things by halves.   
  
Glancing up at the stranger, a strange and quiet hope stirs in Greg's chest.

 _You don't even know she existed,_ he thinks. _Don't know where I work, don't know I live in a two-room flat... don't know I'm a mess._   
  
The corner of his mouth lifts. It's so hard not to stare - the stranger's fascinating just to look at. All that confidence, all that composure. He must work in something important.   
  
Speak, Lestrade. Stop gawking at him.   
  
"So you're normally an espresso person," he says, his eyes soft and dark, "but it's cocoa today?"

 

*

 

 _Princess. Why does that sound so lovely on his lips._ Mycroft bets he is an excellent uncle as well, he can see it in the way he gently plays with Marmalade, fluffing her belly and rubbing a finger over the pink pads of her paws.   
  
Not something he has any experience with himself, of course. The idea of Sherlock spawning or bearing any responsibility for a child is mildly horrifying.   
  
He glances up again. Silver-hair is looking at him, smiling but also looking a bit... sad? _Hrm._   
  
Mycroft, as a rule, tries very hard not to feel things- excepting anger, which had its work uses- but he can still recognize it, and there is a swell of something protective in him that doesn't want this man to be mournful about anything at all. His eyes are just too open, too honest. He can't remember the last time he'd met anyone who came off as honest. The novelty of it brings a smile to his face, makes him a little more open than he'd otherwise let himself.   
  
"Cocoa at night- my PA is insistent that it's better for my sleep, which she seems to think I am in need of. Espresso if I've had the chance to come over during work. My schedule is somewhat... erratic. I've only just returned from an overseas meeting, otherwise I wouldn't be able to be here for so long without work in hand. Her majesty here doesn't seem to mind so long as she can nap, though she once informed me I was not paying sufficient attention by chewing the end of my tie." It had been a nice tie, but Mycroft didn't mind- the mental image of paisley in Marmalade's mouth has been a boon in getting him through several less than interesting sessions with various members of Parliament who imagine their stature to be far greater than it is.   
  
Anthea would probably be thrilled at this turn of events, now that he thinks about it. Not only going out and behaving like a reasonable human in society, but even conversing with handsome strangers. He won't be surprised if he returns to work to learn she has somehow found out and placed a file folder of the man's details on his desk, _call him_ written across it.   
  
A handsome stranger who is likely simply nice and heterosexual, of course, but still. Smalltalk at all is not something he normally bothered with.   
  
"And you take the mocha?"

 

*

 

 _He's got a PA. An erratic schedule. Overseas meetings._   
  
_Holy flaming hell._   
  
Greg does his best to keep the amazement off his face. He doesn't think he's spoken to someone this posh in years. He has an immediate urge to flatten his hair and sit up properly.   
  
He grins a little, bashful, and says,   
  
"I'll drink most things with caffeine in them, to be honest... just felt like chocolate today. Been a long one."

Marmalade stretches out on his knee, as curved and graceful as a drawn bow, and paddles hopefully at the side of Mycroft's leg. Greg watches her, smiling.

"I'm - Scotland Yard. Criminal investigation. Keeps me busy, but... it's hard to unwind sometimes. Better chocolate than anything harder."

 

*

 

Scotland Yard. Mycroft's mind conjures an image of this fine stranger in uniform and he clears his throat, hoping he wasn't blushing. "That must be quite exciting. And difficult, I'd imagine, though I'm sure you keep any criminals in line."   
  
_He's- he's not blushing a bit himself, is he? Surely not._   
  
"It's politics for me, I'm afraid, so I can empathize on the challenge to unwind." Mycroft leans closer, a bit conspiratorial, telling himself he is certainly not gently prodding at the bounds of personal space between them just to test the response. "I often order a brownie when the day has been particularly trying."   
  
"And she helps, of course," he adds, scratching between Marmalade's ears. "Do you wish to trade one sentient pillow for another, your ladyship, or are you trying to sit on us both at the same time?"   


 

*

 

As the stranger leans closer for a moment, Greg feels his pulse take a distinct and dramatic swing upwards. It feels almost flirty. This man isn't flirting - he can't be - but Christ, it feels so much like it that it tightens Greg's chest around his heart. Unaware that his pupils have swollen, and his eyes have grown heavy-lidded for a moment, Greg lowers his gaze and finds a grin.  
  
"Politics... Christ. Surprised all it takes is a brownie. According to the papers, you lot need a lot more than that to switch off."

A wild possibility suddenly occurs. Greg looks up, startled, his brown eyes wide.

"S-Sorry... I'm not - meant to recognise you, am I? I don't follow politics much. If you're a big cheese, and I've just plonked myself down here..."  
  
Marmalade - the very slyest of God's creatures - continues to arrange herself across the pair of them. She has her back half still on Greg, her front half now upon Mycroft, and she's making it work through a squirming sort of bridging motion that she clearly feels is going well so far.   
  
Annoyed that nobody's petting her, she emits a melodic harrumph and wriggles.   
  
Smiling, Greg reaches for her tummy.

  



	3. Chapter 3

_Oh, lord in heaven._ That look- he is-

_Don't blush, Mycroft, you'll embarrass yourself._

Mycroft swallows, his heart rate quietly making itself known in his ears. When was the last time he'd conversed with someone genuinely attracted to him? Somehow that made it much more difficult than simply testing the waters of smalltalk with an attractive stranger- he leans back, finding his cocoa once more, a shield as his brain tries to strategize and manages nothing other than fizzing noises.

"I would be worried if you did. I have a- very minor position. It's really nothing exciting." The words are rote, the instinct mechanical as he reaches down to stroke Marmalade's demanding belly.

His hand does not land on the expected fluff.

He glances down. Yes, that is his hand on the stranger’s hand, gently stroking across it. "Nnnheh," he states eloquently, the majority of his motor skills suddenly redirected to prevent him from spilling his cocoa in his own lap.

_Definitely blushing now. Blushing and chuckling. Well, he won't be interested now, you idiot._

Mycroft lifts his hand and shifts it to Marmalade's chin. She, of course, seems entirely contented by the display and begins to purr.

"Apologies," he says quietly, glancing sideways.

 

*

 

It's the first time Greg's ever had his hand stroked in public by a politician, even a minor one. He grins at once, his heart jumping happily at the awkward sideways glance he's given.

"S'alright," he says, trying not to look delighted. "No harm done."

_Jesus, this is actually going well. This is... yikes. This is good. Holy fuck, if he's gay... fuck, fuck - I shouldn't even be thinking this. He's not. He can't be._

_Things like that don't happen to me. He's just... posh. That's all._

_Just a posh boy, making polite conversation._

"I mean, if you get bored of rubbing _her,"_ he says, hoping to break the awkwardness with humour, "by all means, go ahead. I'm not as soft but I'm very accommodating. I can probably wriggle about a bit on the floor, if you want. Whatever helps, really."

_Jesus Christ, what am I talking about?_

_This is exactly why I'm single._

 

*

 

 _Rubbing. Very accommodating. On the floor._ Now that sets off an intriguing set of mental images that almost immediately darkens his gaze. Mycroft slowly lowers what is left of his cocoa to the table to mitigate the risk of accidentally pouring it over himself.

 _He is flirting. Isn't he?_ He feels a flutter of panic in his core- but Mycroft Holmes is not the sort of man who panics. He is the sort that made things happen.

One carefully arched brow turns.

_Breathe._

He smiles.

"Generally I do like to know someone's name before there's any _wriggling_ involved." He holds out his hand. "Mycroft. Is mine."

 

*

 

He even has a posh name - a gorgeous name, in fact. _Mycroft._ Who in this world can say they know a 'Mycroft'?

Greg can now.

"Wow," he says, startled and obviously a little thrilled, offering his hand in return. His grip's firm and reassuring - and the handshake that ensues is the sort of masterpiece that only two highly professional men can share, perfectly timed and perfectly equal, two clean shakes and done. "Just a 'Greg', I'm afraid," he says. "DI Lestrade."

_Bloody hell, I'm title-dropping. Trying to impress him._

_Hope it works._

_'Mycroft'... Jesus._

"First time I've introduced myself over a cat," he admits, returning his hand to Marmalade's underside. How she's comfortable sprawled between them like this, he doesn't know - but she's making it work, getting herself cosy to sleep. The gap between them the two of them seems to have closed a little.

Greg wonders if he's subconsciously moved closer to Mycroft, or if Mycroft has subconsciously moved closer to him.

 

*

 

 _Wow?_ Mycroft does not usually merit a _wow._ It is more often a _what?_ or _really?_ or a facial expression that seems to be some combination of regrets mixed with judgement on his parents. And Greg has a masculine, warm handshake and an inspector's title on top of seeming genuinely excited to get his name.

Greg must be quite skilled at his job to have made it so high up. Mycroft wonders if he'd ever taken a secondment with the security services.

_Now that's a thought. Could 'borrow' him for any number of assignments... possibly long-term..._

He clears his throat and smiled.

"Mine as well. Though I suspect not hers." Mycroft brushes his fingers over her ears, earning a contented little "mrrp".

Perhaps having decided to assist Marmalade's efforts, the pink-haired barista wanders over with a sly wink toward Greg, a grin, and a thick slice of chocolate cake.

On one plate.

With two forks.

 

*

 

Spotting the cake coming their way, Greg grins from ear-to-ear. "You're not serious," he says to the barista, as she lays it down on the table for them. "What've we done to deserve this?"

The barista smirks, placing a fork in front of each of them.

"Looks like she'll be there for a while, that's all," she says, glancing at Marmalade, who now wears a look of happy contentment that's almost off the scale. "Need to keep your strength up."

As she wanders back towards the counter, Greg gives his new friend a sheepish sideways smile, picking up his fork.

"Not eaten yet," he admits. "M'starving... didn't get any proper lunch, either. Probably shouldn't be treating chocolate cake as a meal, but..."

He edges off a neat triangle of fudge cake, places it into his mouth - and immediately nearly dies. _Fuck me up, that's amazing._ He covers his mouth with a hand to eat it, embarrassed at his own reaction but enjoying it too much to care.

"Christ, have some. Please. Don't make me sit here eating this alone."

 

*

 

Mycroft is rarely surprised, but this is, in fact, a bit surprising. Free cake? Free large amount of cake? He’s never offered such things.

_The barista must like Greg- can't blame her, of course, who wouldn't?_

The reaction the cake garners from Greg is absolutely incredible, however, his face being so expressive. It was fairly _orgasmic_ , really, which Mycroft finds more affecting in certain low regions of his core than he'd like to admit.

_I wonder what I'd need to do to get him to make that face for me._

He looks away to find the other fork and carve off his own small piece, blushing slightly again. It seems he's lost control entirely of that particular physiological reflex.

_Behave. It's cake and a cat._

"I'd forgotten about dinner myself, actually... I suppose there's worse crimes than substituting it with cake." He steals a mischievous look sideways. "Unless you're planning to arrest us for it?" He pops the piece into his mouth.

 _Holy god in heaven._ "Good lord. Perhaps you should arrest us, that's absolutely sinful."

 

*

 

Greg laughs around the last of his mouthful of cake, smiling as he swallows.

"Christ, policeman jokes already? That's - ..." He pretends to check his watch. " - ... _four_ minutes into knowing you. New record. Go on then, if you must."

He scoops up some more cake, wondering if this is really actually happening. An hour ago, if someone told him he'd now be sitting here eating cake with a gorgeous politician in a suit, he wouldn't have believed them for a second.

It doesn't feel like a bad day anymore.

It feels... _normal._

Like he used to be - before it all went wrong. He feels funny and friendly and easy, up for anything, happy to trust. He doesn't feel tainted for a moment. He doesn't feel like it's written on his head: _Greg, forty-something, divorced._

He feels like all the rest of the people in here - sitting with a friend over coffee, smiling and laughing, sharing themselves like it'll all be fine.

It feels good.

"I should warn you I don't know any politician jokes," he says, his eyes glittering. "I'm not bright enough to make them up on the spot, either. This is probably going to get quite one-sided."

_Hell, if he's not been to dinner - there's Il Piacere around the corner, maybe..._

_No._

_No, Lestrade. Don't do it. Don't push it. If he's just being polite, 'cause of Marmalade, and you go ahead and... just don't. It's enough to have someone to chat to for a while._

_Don't wreck it._

 

*

 

Mycroft arches a brow, grinning. "New record, hm? Is there a trophy? Some manner of medal? Honorary badge?"

He eats slowly, pointedly ignoring the calculations running in the back of his mind for exactly how much time on the treadmill he'll need to spend to make this worth it. It will be worth it regardless. He's managed to see two oceans and flirt with a detective all in one day, he can have a bit of cake if he wants. _Treadmill tomorrow. Fudge now._

"I'm afraid most of the usual jests at the expense of my more public-facing brethren don't quite apply to me. My post is a bit more.. behind the scenes. There's not quite the same risk of making a fool of myself simply by speaking," he smirks.

Interesting, however- he can almost feel Greg close off a little bit, those glittering eyes cast down again. Not Mycroft's doing, he doesn't think. It's whatever he was thinking about earlier that made him look a bit sad. _Stop analyzing him, it's rude._

The protective edge he'd felt earlier reasserts itself. He shifts forward to take another bit of cake and lets his knee fall against Greg's. Leaves it there as Marmalade makes a breathy little contented huff in her sleep.

"Maybe you can tell me some police jokes, then it won't be one-sided at all."

 

*

 

The grubby cardboard box in Greg's memory labelled 'Police Jokes' is, after twenty years on the job, fairly full by now. The trick is finding some inside it that are clean enough to tell to a new acquaintance who's both posh and gorgeous - _and_ now knee-to-knee with him. The casual contact jolts Greg's pulse at once into the stratosphere. He can't remember the last time a touch thrilled him so much - then again, he can't remember the last time he was touched at all.

"Okay... police jokes," he says, and buys himself time with a mouthful of coffee. He swirls the mug thoughtfully as he swallows. "My mate's got a car sticker that says 'detectives do it undercover', but... oh, wait. I know. I'll tell you about the two teenagers I arrested last week."

He wheedles another forkful out of their fudge cake.

"One was drinking battery acid," he says, carefully scooping up the topping. "The other was eating a firework."

He places the cake in his mouth, chews, then glances sideways at Mycroft.

"I charged one, and let the other one off."

His eyes dance.

 

*

 

Mycroft’s face twitches, and then he begins to laugh, putting his hand against his forehead. He can’t actually recall the last time he’s laughed because something is genuinely funny and not because it’s worthy of derision.

“Greg, that’s hilariously terrible, good lord.” Long fingers span his eyes to dab at the edges, which are tearing.

Handsome and witty to boot. Perhaps Mycroft ought to be more seriously worried for himself than he is, contentedly eating cake and not having even considered checking his work email in ages, following the orders of a cat and apparently trying for once in his life to be somewhat charming to a person other than royalty or a head of state.

"I suspect police are much wittier than anyone I work with, theoretical need for wit being part of the job description aside." Mycroft has another nibble, smearing a bit of chocolate on his lip that he has to correct with a deft flick of the tongue.

"And I've forgotten most of the jokes I knew."

He turned to Greg and looked him in those lovely dark eyes, grinning. "Because I've seen too many of them get elected."

 

*

 

_Oh, Christ... look at you. Fuck, you're even more gorgeous when you laugh..._

_Jesus, what's happening to me?_

As Greg watches Mycroft lick chocolate off his lip, he knows he shouldn't look - he shouldn't stare, shouldn't watch that little flick of tongue - but his heart's pounding, and he's never been good at hiding these things.

Mycroft's grin lights him up inside. His eyes flash with it, delight brimming in every inch of his expression.

"You're really funny," comes out of his mouth before he can stop it. His heart heaves. "I mean - ... yeah, that's - that's a good one."

He looks down at Marmalade, abashed and biting into his grin. She's fast asleep, as happy as anything. He knows how she feels. Christ, it's going to be hard to leave tonight.

"Jet lagged, too," he says, impressed. He glances up, his eyes dark. "I bet you're a riot when you've actually slept. How much d'you charge for tickets?"

 

*

 

He's so easy to please. Not in a bad way either- just open, honest joy. That stuttered sentence is doing things to Mycroft, things that make him want to be more confident for the both of them. _I want to take him home and show him around just to see what he says._   
  
_I want to take him home._   
  
His pupils darken, still watching that adorable face beside him. He hasn't had that thought about anyone in years. His stomach twists in confused elation, adrenaline picking up his heart rate.

 _Alright, Holmes. You run countries. Be daring._   
  
"To watch me sleep? Usually free of charge if you've gotten access to the bed already."   
  
Another piece of cake is carved off, and he licks it off the fork without breaking eye contact.

 

*

 

_Oh._

Greg's mouth opens slightly; it shuts a moment later. He's staring, and he knows it - but his face seems to be beyond his control. Every fraction of his soul is focused instead on being certain he heard that correctly, certain he saw what he saw. His heart's beating too hard for him to hear his own thoughts.

As he watches Mycroft lick the fork, his stomach stirs with restless longing. His pupils blow huge at once. _Oh. Fuck._

_Christ, what if - what if he's not - what if I'm just seeing things that aren't really...?_

But Mycroft's still looking at him - and that flash of pink tongue - and it makes Greg feel young and wild enough to try. Nobody's looked at him like that in years. Nobody's said something to him like that.

His shocked gaze flickers to Mycroft's mouth a moment, then back to his eyes - and Jesus, they're gorgeous. He wants to look into them from just a couple of inches away.

He wants to see them closing with enjoyment.

With a quiet swallow, in low and careful tones, Greg says,

"And... how would someone go about getting access to that?"

 

*

 

For a brief moment Mycroft thinks he may have stunned Greg out of his senses, and there's a flutter of panic that threatens to break his confident veneer. _Oh, god, what if he says he doesn't see men-_

 _Wouldn't it be worth it, though, just to ask, just to see if he would-_  Mycroft prides himself on being an accurate reader of people- it’s the primary reason he is so skilled, so sought after, with his work- and god he hopes he was right in this case.

_There- his eyes- good lord I could kiss him right here-_

Greg speaks, and Mycroft smiles, more than a hint of victory making it into the grin. He leans back against the couch, extending one arm along the backrest behind Greg, heart hammering against his ribs.

"You are a very handsome man, Greg," he says quietly, head canted as he runs his eyes over those deliciously dark pupils, the way Greg leaves his mouth just a bit open when he's been surprised.

"You, I think, would only have to ask."

 

*

 

_Oh, Jesus. This is actually happening. We're - ... fuck, he's..._

It's been years - literal years - since anyone's come onto Greg like this. He'd forgotten how it feels. Karen never went out of her way to make him feel wanted, especially towards the end - 'the end' covering a period of about two years. She got her kicks from holding him at arm's length, while making other people feel wanted.

And now...

The longing to ease closer is overwhelming - to reach out, slip his fingers behind Mycroft's tie, draw him in and just... just here. Right here. Bring their lips together. Let it pour from him like a river. _I want you, too._ Greg's heart aches at how instantly and completely he wants this, but he can't fight it. It's been too long.

_Fuck. Yes. Anything. Everything._

It's written all over his face.

Glancing down, his heart pounding, he finds his fingers still buried in Marmalade's tummy fur. He smooths it, gently. She sleeps on without a care. _Might have a story to tell next time I see you, princess._

"I, um... don't have any plans tonight." _Jesus, how to say this casually?_ "I was going to find some food at some point, but... otherwise..."

He looks up into Mycroft's eyes.

"Maybe I could keep you company with your jet-lag." He hesitates. "Chill you out."

 

*

 

"How fortuitous. I am also entirely free. And I am growing quite fond of your company."

From the look Greg is giving him they may need to relocate quite soon or Mycroft is definitely going to end up kissing him and he has a feeling Marmalade would be displeased to be caught in the middle of a snog. Possibly the baristas as well if they have to peel the pair of them off the couch later to toss them out on their heels.

_That would be a first. Turned out of a family establishment for getting too handsy whilst cuddling a cat._

Food, however... he _should_ probably eat something, at least to have the energy to do anything- perhaps several particular things- other than sleep this evening. He isn't as young as he used to be when he could manage a field operation on a couple of military rations and three hours rest.

"I'm sure you know the local fare better than I- any place you'd recommend?"

He executes a quick mental calculation- Greg had said he lived close by, Mycroft's own home is a far lengthier walk away, not the sort of distance the average person would normally care for when they could take the tube instead- he likes it for exercise, a way to burn off the energy of the office so he can fully relax once he arrives. Hmm. Would Greg feel more comfortable in his own home? It might be rude to invite himself in, yet his own isn't really set up for more than superficial visitors, and the distance...

_Stop being daft and simply ask him._

"We could do a carryout, of course... for the 'chilling out'. I... do not live terribly close by, but- I could call for a car, or… yours?"

 

*

 

Greg's heart continues to bang against his ribs as he realises an actual honest-to-god plan is forming. They're going to get food and take it somewhere quiet. Then... enjoy each other's company.  
  
The only question now is where.   
  
"Erm..." A nervous laugh escapes Greg at the thought of his flat. It's not the sort of place you brings company, especially gorgeous company in a three-piece-suit. He has a living space - bed, lounge and kitchen, all in one - with a bathroom attached. For just him, it's alright: tiny, safe and quiet - but he worries at once that Mycroft will take one look and run. "I - h-honestly don't have a lot of visitors. Place is untidy. Pretty sure there are empty Pringles tubes in my bed. You - look like you're used to more elegant surroundings, maybe..."   
  
He hesitates, reading Mycroft's eyes.   
  
"Unless... the thought of eating Indian food in bed with a scruffy Hackney boy kinda works for you." He bites his lip. "In which case, I know a good Indian."   


*

 

 _The scruffy Hackney boy in question is definitely working for me_ . _Wait- did he say 'food in bed?'_ Not that Mycroft is strictly opposed, but the idea of crumbs in bed had been very strictly enforced as 'bad' in his youth, part of Mummy's effort to keep him from snacking-   
  
_Oh lord he bit his lip._   
  
_Yes, I'm not going to care much about the state of your flat if you keep doing that._   
  
Mycroft swallows. A closer destination is certainly better.   
  
"Indian sounds perfect." Mycroft smiles and sets aside his cake fork, looking down as Marmalade detects the shift in posture and makes a grumpy little "mrrp" noise.   
  
"Ah- I suppose we will have to dislodge her ladyship." His brow furrows as he fluffs the fur below her chin. "I do wonder what she does overnight sometimes. Hard to imagine them all piling on a bed to cuddle."

 

*

 

A distinct twinge of guilt crosses Greg's chest as he looks down at Marmalade. He supposes it won't be too long until the place is closing - and she can't exactly come with them - but all the same, she's gotten herself cosy. He always hates moving her.  
  
She'd understand, he thinks, if she knew.   
  
And she was eager enough to see them sit together.

In a way, this is all her fault.  
  
Gently reaching beneath the small cat, Greg lifts her up from their laps. "Hey, princess..." The little 'mrrrp' makes his stomach squeeze. He kisses her on the head. "I know. I know I'm dreadful - and I'm taking your posh boy away, too. But I'll be here Sunday morning, alright? We'll do brunch."   
  
He places her gently on the floor by their feet. Marmalade stretches, arches her elegant back and shivers for a moment, then turns her round eyes up to Mycroft.

She trills, expectantly.

 

*

 

Mycroft sighs, pursing his lips against a smile as he leans down to pet her lest he find himself needing to pick her back up and take her with them. _Still taking orders from a cat._ "I know, I never keep as regular visiting hours - but maybe we'll see if your detective friend will consider having company at his brunch."   
  
He looks sideways at Greg as he stands, feeling some tension in his thighs he didn't know he was holding melt away. Book, brolly- he hadn't brought much with him. It all packed up neatly.   
  
He licks his lips, eyes shining as he lets himself have the other thought he had to suppress while he was looking at Marmalade, lest he corrupt her perfect angelic nature.   
  
"Posh boy?"   
  
It had sounded perfectly innocent on Greg's lips, of course, but that would also go right up near the top of the list of things about Greg that are working for him. 

 

*

 

Greg grins, flushing. His eyes are bright, his pupils dark.  
  
"Most people are posh compared to me," he says. "Take one look at my flat, and tell me you're not a posh boy... you'll see."   
  
He takes their plates and cups to the counter on their way out. The pink-haired barista is doing her best not to grin at him, and he can see it all over her expression. He gives her a quick thanks, not trusting himself to say anything else, and they head out onto the street.   
  
Glancing back through the window as they leave, he spots Marmalade getting herself cosy on a cushion.

 _I owe you one, princess._   
_  
_ A big one.

  



	4. Chapter 4

Greg's never been so glad to live near a decent Indian restaurant. Wednesdays aren't too busy, so the food is ready in just a few minutes. His flat's just around the corner; it'll still be hot when they get there.

As he unlocks the front door of his building, Greg glances sideways just to check Mycroft is still there - that this isn't all some weird hallucination. He grins a little, his eyes soft with disbelief and delight.  _ Christ. You're real. You're here. You're actually coming in with me. _

_ Coming in for food. Company.  _

_ Sex. _

_ Jesus, this can't be happening. _

He leads Mycroft up the stairs - just one flight - then unlocks the door of his flat, praying he's not left his boxer shorts lying around everywhere. He can't remember if he's taken the bin out.  _ God help me. _

He hadn't undersold his flat. It  _ is  _ small, everything comfortably close. The kitchen area is bordered by the couch and a wall-mounted TV, then tucked cosily into the far corner is Greg's unmade bed. A laptop and a sleeping t-shirt lie on it ready. It's definitely the flat of a single person - a person who’s fought long and hard for the space, and feels safe in it even if it's small. 

Embarrassed, biting his lip, Greg says, 

"I'd offer you the tour, but... well, you've now had it. At least you won't get lost." His eyes sparkle, full of nerves and hope. "Changed your mind about me yet?"

 

*

 

Mycroft happily follows Greg, feeling a bit more alive than he had in quite a while. Even the most vigorous of meetings with hostile states didn't quite give him the same feeling as moving around amongst average people with Greg. Normally he hates it- the mundanity of it all, the feeling of mingling with people who just couldn't see what was really  _ important _ -

Being with Greg does not feel like that. 

Even the relatively minor task of ordering carryout feels brighter. There are smells, colors that Mycroft has trained himself to ignore for so long that he’s forgotten them entirely, all of them suddenly skirting his awareness and making themselves known.

Much of the effect is likely caused by Greg's intermittent peering over at him with a charming look of vague surprise. It makes Mycroft grin in turn, especially as they make their way up the steps and Greg grows more abashed. The slight pink tint to his cheeks simply makes him more radiant.

_ Oh, he has no idea at all, does he, how he looks. _

The flat was small, yes, but Mycroft had spent much of his fieldwork years make  _ tents _ work when he had to, not that any of his current peers would believe it. Besides, this place bears all the pleasant signs of someone actually living in it- his own home, while aesthetically pleasing, is fairly stark and spartan in all the rooms meant for public viewing, and the others- well, there are reasons he doesn't let people in those....

_ Lord, he bit his lip again.  _

Mycroft clasps his hands behind his back, resisting the urge to skip the meal entirely and shove Greg against the wall, and hopes his grin wasn't getting too predatory. 

"Not to brag, but I rarely need to change my mind because I am usually right the first time. And I have no doubts in your case." He looks around, taking in the warmth of it all. 

"I like it."

 

*

 

Greg almost laughs.  _ Miracles never cease.  _ Maybe there's something fun about slumming it for a night, he thinks, as he steps into the kitchen area and takes clean plates from the drying rack. Maybe this particular posh boy craves a little wild now and then.

"You're kind. Thanks. It was meant to be just for a few months, but... you know how months clump together into years." 

Divorce ended up like a rollercoaster with no ups and no safety bar - just speed and lurching, tunnels, plunging, plummeting, things flying out of his pockets, clinging onto himself and to the few things he could get hold of, telling himself the entire time that he started this and he has to see it to the end.

He could afford somewhere better now - fees nearly paid, finances all sorted - but he hasn't dared to move. Karen is good at hitting him with something just when he thinks everything is alright. He's been left with an irrational fear that, if he moves, and tries to get himself settled somewhere new, somewhere nice, she'll pull some new trick from up her sleeve like a magician - something to remind him that he's not allowed to come out of this happy. 

"Make yourself at home," he offers with a smile, as he sets about unpacking their food. "If you fancy a pringle, there's probably one kicking about the bed somewhere."

It's a joke. 

As if he'd leave a pringle uneaten.

Greg plates up with the diligence and dexterity of one who once loved to cook, but now only owns a single saucepan and two gas rings. He divides the rice between two plates, arranges the sides with quick care, tear naan bread smoothly down the middle and then scoops two glasses from a high cupboard without a glance, filling both with water and a handful of ice from the fridge.

In truth, it's something to occupy his hands - which have decided they're nervous again. 

"D'you fancy wine at all?" he asks, glancing up to see how Mycroft's settling in.

 

*

 

"Mmmm." Mycroft does know what it is like to...  _ stall _ . His own home had been purchased with the thought that his brother would join him, but that never quite happened. It had taken years for him to acknowledge he didn't need to hold the extra space as empty, ready rooms when Sherlock is never going to move in and co-opt them for his own purposes.

The guest room is always kept ready, however, just in case.

He hangs his jacket over a chair, putting the book in a pocket and the brolly dangling over it. Pacing into the living area, he takes a seat on the couch- the coffee table looks like the spot where eating usually happens- other than Pringles, apparently. 

"Wine would be lovely, thank you."

It is challenging, in a new environment, to refrain from analyzing, but Mycroft does try. He had always found it intrusive, how much he could learn from even the smallest details- in someone's home with so  _ many _ details at hand it could be a nightmare. Extensive self-discipline allows him to tamp it down, but things do slip through, especially as he watches Greg plate. Most people don’t really care about how carryout looks- even Mycroft had himself eaten right out of the containers on particular tired, trying evenings- but he sets it out like he truly cares about the presentation. Interesting. 

_ I wonder if he cooks as well- can’t do much with that stove, but I could offer- no, probably too forward just to offer, but just have him over and see if he likes the kitchen. Lord knows I rarely remember it’s there….  _

“Do you usually watch something while you eat?” he asks, eyeing the television.

 

*

 

"Usually," Greg says, appearing with Mycroft's plate and a glass of ice water. He places both down on the coffee table and - suspecting he should be embarrassed this is possible - kneels on the sofa, leans over the back of it to the kitchen counter, and retrieves the bottle of wine and the corkscrew he just left there. "I like having background noise. Gets quiet otherwise. You know those days off, when it rolls around to night time again and you realise you - ..."

_ Haven't heard a human voice all day. _

_ Christ, Lestrade.  _

_ Keep a lid on it. _

" - ... maybe need to get out more," he finishes, tucks the bottle under his arm, and fits the corkscrew.

As he opens the wine, still kneeling beside Mycroft on the sofa, he glances down into his dinner guest's eyes. One eyebrow raises a little.

"Don't know how I have the nerve," he murmurs, "serving you Sainsbury's House Red. I should probably just pour you a glass of vinegar, shouldn't I?"

_ Christ, you're pretty.  _ Mycroft is somehow even more pretty now that Greg has him alone. 

"Are you leaving your tie on?" he asks, amused. "You can get comfy..."

 

*

 

“I like background noise as well, as it happens. Films, usually- I try to leave current events at the office....” The view of Greg bending over the back of the couch is extremely distracting, and Mycroft has to physically stop himself from canting his head to get a better look.

_ He’s quite fit. Especially around the arse… good god, stop staring, you told yourself you’d eat first. _

Mycroft clears his throat and finds himself looking up to meet Greg’s eyes, instinctually smiling.

_ Don’t think he caught you ogling- oh, lovely, blushing again. Do attempt to keep it together, Holmes. _

“I’m sure it’s fine.” He honestly isn’t much bothered about wine- he’s been served excessively expensive iterations at state dinners that tasted more or less the same to him as the bottles he’d bought in college, and it wasn’t as though he had time to develop a connoisseur's taste for it.

His hand reaches for his tie before he has time to be embarrassed that it’s not something he would normally think to remove at all- he’s fallen asleep in ties before, tilted in an armchair, too used to wearing them.  _ Well, if I wasn’t blushing before…. _

“I’m not terribly used to being ‘comfy’, I suppose.”

He slides it off, drapes it over the back of the couch.

 

*

 

Greg watches the tie come off with a half-smile, his eyes shining quietly. It seems like a good start. He places the open bottle down on the coffee table, heads back to the kitchen area briefly and returns with his own food, two wine glasses in the other hand. He nudges on the TV as he passes -  _ background noise _ \- then settles himself beside Mycroft on the couch.

He fills Mycroft's glass with wine first, then his own.

_ This is crazy... this is unreal.  _ It seems easier for now to put out of his mind what has really brought Mycroft here. It's nice just to sit beside someone on the couch, sharing hot food and the familiar murmur of the TV. It's nice to see a glass of wine sitting beside his own.

On a thought, just as he's about to have a first forkful of food, Greg shifts. He reaches into his back pocket, slides out his phone and glances down to find a missed call, from someone his contacts list only as 'K'. One-handed, he clears the call and switches the phone to silent. He places it upside down on the coffee table, nudges it away - and that's that for the night.

"Should tell you I don't do this often," he says, with a quiet flicker of his eyes to Mycroft. "Inviting posh boys upstairs with me, I mean. S'been a while."

 

*

 

“Just posh boys?” Mycroft asks teasingly, one brow arched. “Or boys in general?”

The second query is more serious- if Greg needs a gentler touch, Mycroft is capable of restraining himself from his more… assertive side, the one born of brief and hurried encounters nearly forgotten afterwards, as no one involved had the time or energy for anything resembling a  _ date.  _ And he’d been busy enough for the last few years that even those had trickled off.

“I wouldn’t mind either way,” he adds, softly smiling as he lets his leg fall against Greg’s.  “I haven’t seen anyone in a while either.” 

He had caught, of course, the discreet silencing of the phone- he ought to do the same- ought to message Anthea, actually, and make sure he doesn’t have any early meetings, because he’s certain he doesn’t want to make it to his own bed at a reasonable hour, if at all, but he  _ will _ have to return home to change at some point. As he begins to eat he manages it, a quick text informing her that his jetlag was worse than usual and all meetings should be after ten if possible. But he doesn’t silence it, because his job does not allot that kind of luxury.

The tv is flickering images at him, but he doesn’t recognize the show- no matter, it’s just the comfort of words fluttering in the background. And in the interests of comfort, he undoes the top button of his shirt and takes a sip of the wine. It stains his lips red, not that he can tell, but it’s a nice contrast to his skin- brings out the smattering of freckles on his neck and the ginger tones of his hair.

 

*

 

As they eat, Greg finds himself turning a little more sideways on the sofa so he can see Mycroft - he’s not so fussed about the show. The man beside him is far more interesting, and Greg finds his easier smile from the café is back. He can do this. They’re just having food together. 

The enquiry about generalised boys makes him grin a moment, flushing, looking down into his food as he finds himself some chicken in his chicken madras. 

"I, ah... had a few years of my twenties where it was just other blokes. Friends and stuff. Travelled with a boyfriend for a while... erm. Hands up? The last man was at least last decade. But then, if I’m tragically honest, it’s been a year or two since anyone..."

_ And years still since someone actually wanted me.  _ Karen always made it pretty clear he was a nuisance and a pervert. Her definition of ‘asking constantly’ falls under what most people would class ‘once or twice a month, when I dared’. The discovery she was cheating on a fairly ambitious scale still hurts - not out of any ownership of her, but now just for the cruelty of it. Greg watched himself turn from an easy, friendly, tactile and affectionate thirty-something into a sex-starved and nervous forty-something, who isn’t quite sure why people put up with him. 

Karen cut him off from his life so completely that he almost forgot there was a time when other men felt comfortable and right. 

It’s nice to remember it, now, sitting with Mycroft. 

He knows on some level that men of his age shouldn’t be doing this sort of thing anymore - but it feels good, and he feels young and safe and happy for a while. It’s something about Mycroft. He seems discreet, clever and composed, confident in a way that reminds Greg what that feels like, and he’s gorgeous to boot. 

It seems like Greg couldn’t possibly have asked for more. 

Shifting a little, smiling, Greg lets one socked foot brush Mycroft’s shin. The casual touch becomes a stroke - just the tips of his toes, just gently - and it gives him a thrill that makes his eyes shine.  _ Someone to touch. Someone to sit with.  _

“I - guess we’re both professional men who work hard. Life’s crap and lonely. S’nothing wrong with relaxing for a while with somebody who understands.”

 

*

 

Mycroft’s lip quirks up on one side.  _ That’s a remarkably honest sentiment.  _ It confirms his earlier assessment of Greg’s character- he doesn’t seem to have the instinct to deceive, even to make himself more confident.  _ Fascinating. _

“I haven’t been in much of a position to- date- in quite a while.” Oddly enough his time in the security services had been his best, as far as frequency with the same partners was concerned. They preferred that their agents kept their dalliances in-house, to alleviate any security risks of external partners. Convenient and efficient, which was about all that anyone working for them had time for.

He’d have to run a cursory check on Greg, of course, particularly as he was already thinking of getting him in his own bed… though he doubts a DI with Scotland Yard will present any major obstacles.

Those gentle strokes against his shin send a small jolt up his nerves. He wants it against his skin. Wants Greg’s skin against his skin. He’d blame the jet lag for his lascivious thoughts but it’s likely proximity to Greg himself, alone, in a room with a bed, that has frayed his normally extensive levels of control.

He runs his tongue over his teeth and glances at his plate- he’s eaten  _ enough _ to manage with, in all likelihood. One shift of his hips and he turns himself toward Greg, extending his arm along the back of the couch until his fingertips brush over Greg’s shoulder, wine swirling in its glass in his other hand.

“And to be perfectly honest, relaxing was not precisely my intention.”

 

*

 

_ Christ, posh boy, how 'minor politician' actually are you? 'Not in a position to date'? That sounds pretty high-level... _

As time goes on, Greg's growing more convinced that there's more to Mycroft than meets the eye - a  _ lot  _ more. He can feel it here in the flat with them, just like he can somehow feel Karen and the divorce: all their collected ghosts, gathered round - and being thoroughly, contentedly ignored. 

He'd never thought a stranger here could feel comforting. There's an odd, relieved sort of honesty to it, he thinks. Two people, two tired minds, two tired bodies, connecting without baggage or expectations or projections to keep up. It's just about the connection, and it's like breathing proper air again after hours locked in a hot tube train. It feels more authentic than his whole bloody marriage ever felt. It makes him smile, quietly amazed.

As Mycroft coaxes an arm behind him, comes a little closer and strokes his shoulder, Greg's interest in his food seems to vaporise. He realises he doesn't need to eat; he needs those eyes far more.

_ 'Relaxing was not precisely my intention.'  _

_ Oh, fuck.  _ He's never heard something sound so good - dark, smooth and soft - and as he glances into Mycroft's gaze, the look of quiet fragility returns to his eyes.  _ Jesus, I want this.  _ He visibly swallows, takes a last mouthful of food, then moves his plate away to the coffee table. 

"I might be using 'relaxing' in place of something else," he admits, hoping he sounds braver to Mycroft than he does to himself.

 

*

 

“Were you now,” Mycroft purrs. He drains what’s left of his wine and ensures the glass returns to the table, not looking at it as he sets it down by feel- his eyes are on Greg’s. His fingers flick up, stroking up Greg’s neck and into the bristle of his hair until he touches the softer strands of silver above.

He watches Greg’s eyes a moment, ensuring that he’s certain- he looks almost shy- there’s something delicate about him, something that makes Mycroft  _ yearn _ in a protective way- a Neanderthal instinct to both take Greg to bed and keep him there, warm and safe. He feels an uncoiling in his core when he’s sure he sees it in Greg’s eyes- the  _ yes I want _ that mirrors his own.

Lacing his fingers through that wondrous hair, Mycroft leans forward.

There’s a brief pause- an inhale, really, once he’s close enough to feel the heat of Greg’s breath on his skin and catch the scent of aftershave put on sometime in the morning, sandalwood and pine- and then Mycroft presses his lips to Greg’s, warm and soft and thoroughly on the wrong side of chaste. He wraps his other hand around Greg’s waist, feeling the taut line of muscle there-  _ oh he is fit, isn’t he, good lord in heaven-  _ and stroking his thumb along those lines through his shirt.

_ Perfect, he’s utterly perfect. _

 

*

 

At the first stroke of his neck, Greg falls apart. 

_ Oh fuck,  _ his heart gasps - and then his mouth is its echo, the words breathed with panicked longing as his pupils blow to twice their size. "Oh,  _ fuck..." _ Just the brush of fingers there is enough to ignite his every nerve. He has a sensitive neck - always has - but he knows it's not just that. It's the look Mycroft is now giving him, and the realisation that was a  _ first _ touch, to be followed by other touches.

The moment's pause seems to go on forever. Greg's heart pounds as if it's about to rupture. He stares at Mycroft, searching his eyes, mortified at the strength of his reaction and knowing full well that, right now, he looks  _ exactly _ like what he is: a man who hasn't gasped like that in years; a man who'd forgotten he could even make those sounds.

At the press of their lips, his eyes flutter shut.

"Fuck," he whispers again, his voice tight, and it's softened at once by the stroke of their mouths. He can feel a tremor rising up his spine already; Mycroft's arm around his waist, pulling him close, makes him almost whimper. His hands slide around Mycroft with palpable anxiety and longing, shaking as they feel his suit jacket - the fabric - the body beneath it,  _ fuck,  _ Mycroft's waist, his back, his lips, the soft sound of kissing sending blood rushing below his belt, and Greg's breath draws rough and tight in seconds. He can feel Mycroft's fingers exploring him - his body - appraising him.  _ Please. Fuck. Touch me.  _ It's hell not to moan. He doesn't dare let himself yet.  _ Fuck, barely even kissing.  _

_ Fuck.  _

He feels like he's about to erupt. 

_ More. Please more.  _

The shake in his hands doesn't temper Greg's natural strength and gentleness. As he pulls Mycroft close, onto his lap, and leans back to sink them down against the sofa, the movement is utterly careful - as if he doesn't quite dare; as if he expects Mycroft to push him away at any moment; as if he doesn't believe he can possibly have this, but wants it so much that the desperation becomes bravery. 

"F-Fuck," he whispers again between their lips, his voice breaking. He can feel the zip of his work trousers already straining.  _ Fuck - touch me - please - please don't go. _

 

*

 

Whatever Mycroft had been expecting, it’s not ending up pulled onto Greg’s lap, listening to him desperately curse- Mycroft had thought him shyer than that but he’s thrilled to be wrong, thrilled to find him so enthusiastic-  _ very _ enthusiastic, if he can judge by the gentle press he can feel near his thigh. He lets out a low grunt of surprised delight when Greg pulls them over- it’s as though he can feel the leash come off, the moment when  _ want  _ absolutely becomes  _ need. _

It makes him  _ need _ in turn.

He sheds his suit coat, tossing it somewhere past his feet.

The sounds forcing their way out of Greg are beautiful, luscious things, demanding that he continue- Mycroft is happy to oblige. His hand wraps through those delicious silver strands and pulls, just hard enough to tilt his head to the side and let Mycroft start to taste him- a teasing lick of his earlobe, a drag of his teeth down his neck….

Greg’s reaction is spectacular- arching against him, clinging, Greg probably doesn’t even know the breathy sound he just made but Mycroft nips him a the crook of his neck just to hear him make it again. It’s the sort of noise that runs straight through him and he can feel the twitch of response in his trousers. He cants his hips instinctually, a predatory rut against Greg’s thigh, letting out a low, growling moan at the friction. 

_ Need to touch him, need to touch skin- _

“Greg… shirt- off-” he breathes, already scrambling for the buttons one-handed.

 

*

 

Greg can't breathe. 

He doesn't need to - it doesn't matter. 

All he needs is Mycroft to keep making those sounds, showing him, reminding him, tugging at his hair like that, nipping at his neck like that. His thoughts have whited out in a stream of desire, pleading and fright.  _ Oh God, I don't remember how it goes. What if I can't last? What if I take too long?  _ He wants to make it good. He doesn't want to be a disappointment. 

Mycroft's confidence is so comforting that it aches. It's easy to obey and respond - it makes Greg feel like he's safe. This will be alright. He'll remember, and if he doesn't, Mycroft is so fucking gorgeous that he'll just worship every bit of him in turn until something starts to work. What he's lost in practice, he'll make up for with passion. He pushes up nervously onto his elbows, and with another flash of vulnerability in his eyes he reaches for Mycroft's mouth, wanting to kiss - to hide his anxiety as he helps the graceful fingers in unbuttoning his shirt.

He doesn't even know if he counts as handsome anymore. He did when he was young - he worked on it, then he wasted it. God only knows if he's considered a worthy prize now. He hopes he is. When the buttons are open, he works back his shoulders to permit the removal of the fabric, shaking at once at the feeling of fingertips across his skin. 

His stomach tightens as he reaches for Mycroft.

This shirt is expensive - he can feel it in the fabric, in the easy slip of buttons between his clumsy fingertips. He can tell by the way it smells as he nuzzles into the already opened collar, brushing his nose and mouth over Mycroft's neck.

"Oh my God," he breathes, soft and shocked. His hands push beneath the parted buttons, stroking over Mycroft's bare stomach and chest with utter longing. "Oh God, you feel good - "

 

*

  
  


_ Warm, soft skin, trail of silver guiding down- _

Mycroft gasps. Gregory is even more beautiful than he hoped, and so  _ eager,  _ diving back in to his own buttons, warm breath on his throat. He shrugs it off, flinging it back in the direction he abandoned his suit coat- Greg’s hands are everywhere, exploring his waist, his stomach, like he was  _ impressed _ \- that never happens, Mycroft sails along on charisma and force of will, not because he is  _ attractive _ , not because anyone ever wants  _ him _ so much as they want access to what he represents- but there is Greg, saying  _ “you feel so good” _ and nosing against him like he really means it.

It’s a heady feeling, being wanted.

He nuzzles his lips across Greg’s ear, pulling the lobe into his mouth and sucking it against his teeth, slipping his hands to Greg’s arse and squeezing-  _ just as pert as I thought- _ dragging them back up his back by the fingertips passionately enough that they would scratch if he had longer nails. He shifts, straddling Greg’s hips, dipping his arse against the bulge he can feel underneath, groaning when he feels that tell-tale twitch against him.

“Let me feel you,” he breathes shakily, his desire pulling his self-control to pieces and sending his restraint to wherever he’d tossed his shirt, “you bloody gorgeous man.”

 

*

 

_ Oh, fuck.  _

_ Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck... _

As Mycroft nuzzles and sucks at his earlobe, fingernails sliding deliciously up his back, Greg lets out a sound that makes him cringe. It's bordering dangerously on a sob. It escapes him like a bubble, a restless and wordless plea that says  _ oh fuck yes,  _ and he'd feel more embarrassed if there was space in his head to think.

He'd forgotten what having his ears kissed does to him. He likes having a lover close enough to do that - bodies pressed, face-to-face, near his neck, touching his skin - it makes him ache with enjoyment. As Mycroft shifts to straddle him, and there comes contact at last against Greg's straining cock, another mortifying noise wrenches itself from his mouth.

_ 'Let me feel you.'  _ He's got no choice. He doesn't have a secret in the world right now. He swallows, shaking, as his nervous fingers run their way up Mycroft's thighs. He takes Mycroft's hips in his hands, his grasp gentle and his eyes flashing in need of reassurance, then lets his pelvis lift - pressing up, rubbing his erection with a shudder against Mycroft's arse. The flood of pleasurable friction makes him moan; the sound is soft, fragile, and the excitement that wracks Greg's face is so intense it looks briefly like pain.

"You're - y-you're..." 

Words won't come.  _ You're here. You're beautiful. You feel good. You're touching my skin, letting me touch yours. Oh God, oh God I want you.  _

Intensity shivers across Greg's expression. "M-Maybe - bed...? Please."

_ Oh God, let me lie down and touch you in bed. Let me see you lying there.  _

_ Let me make you moan. Please.  _

 

*

_ Good God.  _

He’s always liked getting a reaction out a lover- Mycroft can be a tactician even in the sheets- 

This is the best he’s had.

Greg is dangerously expressive. Those cries and moans run right through Mycroft, each one throbbing at his center.  _ “Please” _ is enough to make it hurt. There’s a serious risk that he’s going to be rendered incapable of thought if he sees that beautiful broken look on Greg’s face again, that rush of pleasure so forceful that it’s painful. He forces himself to breathe enough to manage a word. “Bed.”  

He claims one more kiss- hard- before he lets Greg up, open-mouthed and deep and gasping against his lips. _Yes._ _More. Yes._ He rises, pulling Greg up with him, stronger than his slender frame would hint at, dragging him by the hips toward the bed, kissing him again and again even as they move. He toes off his shoes on the way- not the kind he should be doing that with, and he’s certain he hears a lace snap, but Mycroft can’t find it in himself to care at all. Greg’s hands are clutching at his back, running over his hair, and they probably look like two drunken university students, incapable of keeping their hands off each other, but it’s not as though anyone is around to judge.

His calf hits the bed and he lets go, dropping onto it and ripping his socks off. It puts him at the perfect level to press his mouth just above Greg’s belly button, running his hands up the back of his thighs, over the curve of his arse as Greg cards through his hair- every noise he makes is making Mycroft  _ ache. _

Looking up into those brilliant dark eyes, he kisses Greg’s stomach once more, leaning back as his fingers curl around Greg’s belt, knuckles brushing against that deliciously soft skin just inside his trousers.

He smiles and pulls Greg in.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Looking down, wide-eyed and breathless, the sight that awaits Greg will stay with him for the rest of his life - his posh boy, all bare skin and ruffled hair, gazing up and kissing his stomach, tugging him forwards by the belt.  _ My posh boy.  _ Mycroft's eyes are inviting. His body is relaxed on Greg's bed, and his hands and his mouth seem to want Greg just as much as Greg wants them.

_ Oh God.  _ Heart pounding, Greg realises in a rush that this is okay - it's alright - guided to his own bed, pulled close.  _ Allowed to touch.  _ All that pretty skin, and he's allowed to touch and relax and feel.

The smile that breaks over his face is soft with relief; his eyes shine black and bright. Grinning, still flushing with his touch of shyness, Greg kneels on the bed and unbuckles his belt. When it's open, he leans low to kiss Mycroft and let him take care of the rest, his own hands moving to Mycroft's trousers - unfastening them for him, unbuttoning, loosening with care.

_ Christ. Let me feel you, too.  _ He slips his hand inside Mycroft's trousers, gently, shivering as he finds hardness there. His fingers wrap; he strokes Mycroft's cock slowly through the fabric of his underwear. Feeling someone hard for him sends sparks of electricity rolling through Greg's veins, and as he rubs, he can feel his own anxiety easing more and more.

Gently he slides his tongue into Mycroft's mouth; though still trembling, his only thought pours from him in waves:  _ I want you, I want you. I want you so much. _

 

*

 

Mycroft gasps against Greg’s kisses, rendered breathless by the feeling of Greg’s hand down his trousers, rubbing and stroking- it shouldn’t be so simple to let himself go but it is, it’s so easy to let himself fall into sensation.

_ God, yes. _

He moans, tongue against tongue, parting the zip of Greg’s trousers and feeling the press of the hardness there happy to escape its more restrictive cloth prison, twitching under his first gentle, exploring touches. His hand strokes in mirror of Greg’s- slow, steady, keen to make this last.

The first touch against dampening cloth makes his heart race- he strokes up once more over Greg’s pants-covered cock and slips his hands around, shoving Greg’s trousers down past his arse to his thighs. The skin there is gloriously warm, and he drags his fingers around to the front, nudging the trousers farther down on that side as well.

_ Feel you, need to feel you- _

His breath breaks, stuttering out a moan as he slips his hand into Greg’s pants.

 

*

 

_ Fuck, yes - moan for me... oh fuck... moan for me...  _

Mycroft isn't leaving - not until the morning. Not until Greg has found and worshipped every single tiny place that makes him gasp like that. He's not going until Greg's made certain he'll spend the rest of this week feeling like a king. He's gorgeous, and his sounds of pleasure feel like fresh water running through Greg's soul - and he needs to understand that he's a miracle. 

Greg can't let him go until he does.

The slide of Mycroft's fingers along his cock makes Greg shake at once. He has to break the kiss just to breathe, desperately trying to rein in his panting - his face works with the feeling, shocked by the force of it. His hips push into Mycroft's touch of their own volition, his grip tightening on Mycroft's cock and rubbing more firmly, wanting more pleasure, more touch,  _ more.  _ He's not had anyone stroke him like this in years - and even then, Mycroft's fingers aren't just anyone's. His touch feels cool and careful, almost elegant, and the slowness of it burns through Greg's blood like flame. This isn't going to be over quickly. This is just feeling, exploring - and it's already glorious.

"J-Jesus..." Greg swallows, flushing with embarrassment at his own reaction - but he's enjoying it too much to fight. As he glances into Mycroft's eyes, he gives a huffed laugh. His eyes shine. "R-Right," he whispers. "That's it. These are coming off you, posh boy. Right now."

He shifts, drags a kiss restlessly down Mycroft's chest and stomach, and works down his trousers and underwear. At the legs he discovers beneath, a soft groan pulls itself from Greg's throat - long, gorgeous legs. They need to be stroked and kissed at once. His breath ghosts across Mycroft's skin in urgent puffs as he winds his way from ankle to the inside of Mycroft's knees, up to his pretty pale thighs.

"Fuck me up..." he whispers, gazing up at Mycroft from his now bare lap, obsessed with the freckles he's found there. He shivers between kisses, adoring the little marks with his mouth. "Look at you... just fucking  _ look  _ at you. What are you doing here with a scruff like me?"

 

*

 

_ Posh boy. _ That’s a dangerous phrase. It makes Mycroft feel desperate for more- more of that  _ voice _ , more  _ touch _ \- he actually whimpers when Greg starts to work his way back up his legs, clutching at the sheets, skin pinkening when he realizes the noise came from him. 

_ Oh god oh god oh god- _

He’s not going to be able to cope with the sight of Greg between his legs, mouthing over his skin. Fingers trembling, he works one hand into Greg’s hair- silver, he’s going to be  _ dreaming _ of silver for months- simply caressing him, enjoying his presence.

_ “Fuck me up,” _ he hears, those beautiful plush lips and warm breath tracing achingly close to his cock. Mycroft whimpers again, louder. He should be embarrassed, but he isn’t, because the man tenderly caressing him could be sculpted and put in a museum, and instead he’s let Mycroft Holmes, of all people, into his bed and stripped him bare.

“You have no idea, do you, how- oh god-” Greg’s lips have found the sensitive spot in the dip of his hip and Mycroft arches against him, fingers curling into his hair, agonizing with want. “Fuck- how  _ fucking _ beautiful you are-”

 

*

 

_ Let this be more.  _

_ Oh, fuck, let me be more. I'll do anything.  _

Greg responds at once to the tightening of those gorgeous fingers in his hair, his eyes flickering shut - a sweep of lashes across Mycroft's skin. He brushes the little dip with his mouth. It feels to some part of his soul like a greeting, like a first kiss - a whispered stroke of,  _ here I am _ \- and as he bathes the sensitive little spot with his tongue, tracing the letters of Mycroft's name, his heart heaves against his ribs.  _ Let me come back here. This place. Let me listen to you whimper and swear while I find it again. _

A hand strokes, fingers splayed, across Mycroft's stomach. With the other, Greg loosens his own trousers and boxers, easing them down. He toes off his socks. Mycroft's name finished, he nuzzles across to the other side of his hip, kisses the soft skin in greeting, then writes his own name with his tongue.

Naked, feeling his own pulse flickering in every inch of his skin, he turns his mouth at last to Mycroft's cock.

He draws a long, slow lick - stroking the tip of his nose up the shaft, following its path with his tongue.  _ Christ... oh Christ, I missed this...  _ Reaching the head, he lifts his eyes to watch Mycroft's face as he slides his tongue along the underside, settling himself to the feeling of a cock against his lips again. The first stroke turns into a gentle, wet and careful lapping, watching all the while - dark eyes that long to be allowed to witness pleasure.

 

*

 

_ Fuck, fuck _ \-  _ oh god- _

His mind processes even without trying- letters, words, etched on his skin like a brand-  _ yes, mark me, yes, yours-  _ Mycroft shudders.

He’s torn between the urge to lay back and simply feel and the compulsion to see Greg- see him as his trousers come off, see what he’d been tracing his fingers against, the cock he’s so looking forward to seeing-  _ feeling _ \- more of. No, he has to see-

Only the image that greets him is Greg’s tongue licking up the side of his own cock.

Mycroft inhales shakily.

Time feels like it’s stalling. His eyelids flutter and he thinks for a moment that oxygen has ceased its path to his lungs. His hands twist the sheets, the inside of his thighs rubbing against Greg’s shoulders- more skin, more contact,  _ more _ , and he gasps-

“Greg- oh, god, Greg-”

 

*

 

The sound of his own name sends a jolt through Greg's stomach that he won't forget. His heart twists, his breath tightening, and as he rolls his tongue over the head of Mycroft's cock, his eyes close for a moment in contentment. 

He then smiles, just short of drawing Mycroft into his mouth - and leans down to nuzzle his stomach instead.

"You know I don't have a clue what I'm doing?" he murmurs, his voice soft with relief. His grin is audible. "I just... God, I - r-really want you. All of you."

Kissing his way up the bed, breathing the smell of Mycroft's skin into his lungs, Greg lets his cock push slowly along Mycroft's thigh. The warm stroke of friction feels so good that his breath catches, and by the time he reaches Mycroft's mouth again he's shivering.

"Might need to teach me some stuff again," he whispers, pushing their foreheads together, gazing at Mycroft across two short inches of space. Their bodies press, erections nuzzling, and Greg's eyes are growing darker by the moment. "That alright?"

He bites his lip, pulling it slowly between his teeth. 

"Tell me what you like," he murmurs. "Let me see if I remember."

 

*

 

The loss of contact against his cock makes Mycroft shudder, a needy groan slipping through his lips. He catches his breath as Greg finds his way back to his mouth, tasting of Mycroft, tasting like  _ his.  _ It’s a possessive rush of a feeling, enough to catch his brain back up to his body and dig out of the wash of pleasurable decadence he’d been slipping into.

_ That. Bloody. Lip.  _

It’s one thing Mycroft is unreasonably weak to, that lip bite, and Greg does it so well, so  _ innocently _ , that he almost growls in response.

He props himself up, turning, kissing Greg hard. “Wouldn’t you rather I show you?” He shoulders Greg over, twines his fingers through Greg’s and brings their hands down together, wrapping them both around their throbbing cocks.

“I like an awful lot of things, Greg,” Mycroft purrs, pulling them gently and brushing his lips over Greg’s cheek. His thumb brushes over saliva and precum, spreading it between them, slicking them as best he can. “This is one, just- being together,  _ feeling _ you-”

“I  _ really _ enjoy feeling you, Greg.” He meets Greg’s eyes, his own even and dark and heavy-lidded with pleasure. “Feeling you so hard for me.”

“And I will teach you  _ anything  _ you want to know.”

 

*

 

"Fuck," Greg breathes at the wrap of hands - something about their fingers joined, together - then the whisper in his ear brings forth another, "Fuck..." and then as Mycroft's thumb slicks across the weeping head of his cock, Greg groans and tightens and gasps,  _ "Fuck - " _

Mycroft's voice is doing everything for him. It shows in his face - his eyes a little rounded, almost desperate in their stare, watching Mycroft's words as much as listening to them. He likes talking. He always has. He likes soft words and eye contact, confidence, closeness, someone who says his name to him. Any two people can fuck. Not any two people can talk.

"I'm hard for you," he breathes, shivering - the realisation hits him in a rush. It takes his breath.  _ "Fuck.  _ M'h-hard - s-shit, this is happening - "

Hesitation flashes across his eyes; it's overpowered by longing. Fighting a moan, he twists a little and stretches for the bedside, fumbles a drawer open and reaches inside. A number of objects are audible as he searches.

Lubricant is finally retrieved - the warming variety, a half-empty tube that labels itself as specially for masturbation.

Greg gives Mycroft a look of equal guilt and amusement as he snaps open the lid with his thumb.

"Don't judge me," he warns, his eyes playful and soft. "Can't sleep without it. M'not a pervert." 

Reaching down between them, he squeezes a generous amount between their hands; the clear gel rolls thick and lazy across their cocks. Greg twitches beneath Mycroft, stifling a moan, spreading the slickness with their twined fingers. The warming effect begins almost at once. "F-Fuck - "

 

*

 

It’s interesting how affected Greg seems by his voice- Mycroft finds Greg’s to be a beautiful low, tantalizing rumble, of course- but he’s never seen his own as particularly alluring. His sharp, cold, crafted persona he uses at times for work might be effective on certain people inclined to someone more domineering, but this is simply… what he normally sounds like. 

He’d gotten out of the habit of talking during sex (excepting assertions of consent, pleasure, and the like) because of his work in the Security Services- too many horror stories of agents letting something slip that gave them away while trying to get a leg over. Yet Greg makes him  _ want _ to talk, just to see the eager joy in his eyes, how very attentive he gets when Mycroft speaks.

“Not a pervert, no,” he teases in turn. “Merely a pragmatist.”

Lube is old hat to Mycroft, but it’s never been something he’s gotten particularly ornate with- a quality all-purpose line has always suited him fine for whatever situations arose.  So the warming variety is… new.

“Holy god.”

He blinks, eyes widening in surprise.

“Oh, you indulgent hedonist, this is  _ excellent- _ ”

One hand shifting with Greg’s, bringing them together in a single grasp and stroking, the sound of it wet and pulsing, Mycroft leans down to lick a stripe up his neck and nibble his ear. “Every night, hm? And here you are sharing this luxury with me. Are you going to think of me, Greg, next time you open that bottle?”

He drags his teeth down, not realizing that his hips have started to shift in rhythm with his hand, fucking against that slick friction. “Thinking of my mouth on your skin.” A nip, and he catches the salted taste of sweat on his tongue.

“Thinking of my cock rutting against yours.”

 

*

 

Greg's never been so sure of something in his life. He doubts he'll ever think of anything else. The easy stroking is magnificent, and the steady push of Mycroft's cock against his own makes him moan, gasping at the edged brush of teeth along his sensitive neck. This is fucking heaven. The way Mycroft says 'cock' nearly kills him.

"Fuck, you feel  _ good - "  _ The ardent gasp tapers out into a whimper. Greg's head falls back, offering his throat to the mouth now making him shake, his hips rising up in receptive enjoyment of the easy fucking. The motion causes the very tip of Mycroft's cock to nuzzle at his frenulum, over and over, and his face twists with the feeling. "Oh my God - don't stop, don't stop - "

His free hand appears on Mycroft's back, grasping, desperate to keep as much of their skin together as he can. A groan rips from his throat. As if something has released, it's followed in its wake by a rush of sound.

"Oh Jesus, just - f-fucking - fuck, I  _ need  _ this right now. I  _ need  _ to touch you. Stay the night. I want to fuck. N-Not - I-I mean, just - touch. Like this. Anything. Everything. You feel really good."

 

*

 

Mycroft has no plans of stopping, not when he feels so good and Greg is making all those delicious noises. 

_ This pure, honest soul. _

He casts out a brief, silent prayer that Anthea had actually been able to push all his obligations later. There hadn’t been a response by the time he stopped paying attention to his phone entirely. “Touch me- touch me, I’ll stay.”

That lovely throat is too tempting, Mycroft pours himself into kissing it, lavishing it with his tongue, feeling every vibration of Greg’s moans and words. Overcome by the simply physicality of their press together, that need for every nerve to be set alight in contact, he sucks a bit harder than intended, a small mark left in its wake. He’ll apologize for that later if he needs to, but secretly he likes it- likes a marker that he’s been there, that Greg has been  _ his. _

He sighs a moan, his own hips rolling a bit faster. “How close are you, Greg? Do you want to come like this?”

 

*

 

_ Fuck, yes... _

_ Fuck - no. _

Greg realises with a shudder that he's already reaching those wild, wordless moments where animal enjoyment is the only priority. He doesn't want this to be over so fast - from a first kiss to a quick and messy climax in minutes. It would be easy to let go and let it happen.  _ Stupidly _ easy, in fact. 

But with an ache, Greg realises he doesn't want Mycroft to remember this like that. 

His answer, then, is a quick intake of breath and a stiffening of his shoulders, a grab for Mycroft's hand around their cocks - loosening it, detangling. He wraps their fingers together tightly instead, gripping hands as Greg forces himself to breathe with some purpose.

His cock strains. He can feel himself pulsing, his body longing for the stimulation to return. The empty air is almost distressing. 

"S-Sorry," he whispers as he stirs, squeezing Mycroft's hand. Lube slicks between their fingers. "You're - w-way too good at this... all of this." 

He tilts his head, nuzzling gently at the top of Mycroft's head - clean hair, now a mess. Smiling a little, voice soft with embarrassment, he murmurs,

"Think you could just talk me to come, t-to be honest. You've - got a really sexy voice... r-really works for me."

 

*

 

Mycroft nuzzles his nose over Greg’s throat and rolls off, laying beside him and mustering his own reserves of self-control. The surge of hormones and energy that comes along with sex don’t want him to stop, and the threat of collapse due to over-tiredness lurks on the other side warning him that if he relaxes too much he might not be getting back up.

“I am glad to hear it,” Mycroft breathes deeply, trying to even his lungs and heart back out. “Maybe something to try… another evening.” 

Is it too forward, the expectation that he’ll see Greg again? Mycroft wants to, he’s already certain of that. Even if it was just sex- he has no idea if Greg is even looking to date, and Mycroft isn’t entirely sure he remembers how, but he’d like to test those waters.

“As far as I can see, you have a sexy… everything, really.” Lord, he must be getting tired. His eloquence is slipping.

He brushes his fingers over Greg’s hair. “I like that you say what you are thinking. It’s probably not shocking to say that no one I work with is honest.” 

Mycroft’s fingers slide along Greg’s, gently stroking, quietly reassuring.

 

*

 

At the mention of future evenings, Greg’s eyes seem to shine. The grin returns, and the bitten lip, and he turns onto his side to be able to see Mycroft. The mattress creaks quietly beneath his weight. 

As Mycroft brushes a hand through his hair, the casual touch gives him a thrill almost as potent as their intimate contact. The ease of it - almost familiar - makes him shiver. Just lying here, gently touching; it feels like a moment that lovers would share, not strangers. Emboldened by Mycroft’s calm confidence of touch, Greg slips an arm around the other man’s waist. It’s still a wonder to be allowed. It feels amazing, settling close to touch and talk - still aroused, still engaged in the intimacy of sex - just taking a moment to rest together. 

_ You work with liars too, huh? God knows that’s never easy. _ The ones Mycroft deals with are probably much better at it than the crooks Greg has to interview week in, week out. 

"I’m - not much of a liar. Never have been." Greg’s smile twists, amused. "Can’t keep much off my face... and - to be honest, I... I’ve done my time with people hiding things. There’s no point to it, really. All comes out in the end..."

He glances into Mycroft’s eyes, gently running a hand along his side. His soft brown gaze is watchful, checking every moment that this is alright - that his hands are still welcome on Mycroft’s skin. 

He holds a thought in his mouth for just a moment; fondness brings it to the surface, past all the nerves and the wounds.

"This feels good," he says. His eyes flicker to Mycroft’s lips, and his chest expands just a little. "You’re... really easy to be with."

 

*

 

The touch of Greg’s hand along his side is soft and warm. Comfortable, in the most pleasing sort of way. Mycroft supposes it’s a sign of their age, this easy nude closeness without the need to  _ be fucking _ with every second. It’s possible, he muses, that this is better.

He crosses one of his ankles across Greg’s legs. “Most of the liars I know are not quite so skilled at it as they think.”  _ But some of them are very good indeed. _ Politicians and spies, diplomats and their entourages- most of them wouldn’t get very far without being able to convince  _ someone _ that they were certainly working in their best interest. The biggest difference was not usually how much lying they were up to, but what their motivations were. 

Greg’s soft brown eyes meet his, and he smiles as they shyly flick away again.  _ Don’t do that, Greg. Keep looking. You already see me. _

“ _ Easy to be with.  _ Remind me to get that from you in writing so I can prove someone said it. My PA won’t believe me,” Mycroft says with a slightly self-deprecating grin.

He brushes his finger over Greg’s cheek, down to his chin, tilting his face slightly up so Greg’s eyes meet his. “You don’t need to look away when you’re being complimentary. I find you very easy to be with as well.”

“You make me  _ want _ to be here, Greg.”

 

*

 

"I'll write it out for you in the morning," Greg says, softly. His eyes shine with the simple joy of being looked at.  "Sign it for you and everything..."

As Mycroft lifts his face, the breath seems to sweep itself from his lungs. It's gone in an instant, lost on the feeling of being gently opened like that.  _ Christ, I didn't know you two hours ago... now you're in bed with me. Wanting to be here with me. Skin-to-skin with me.  _

It almost doesn't feel real.

Nobody has cupped his face like that in... Jesus,  _ decades. _ He can't even be certain anyone ever has. If they did, it didn't make him feel like this. It didn't make his blood run warm in his veins, nor his toes curl with gentle need. Something about Mycroft's voice and his words just  _ does things  _ to Greg. That easy murmur - reassurance, request, gentle stipulation - it seems like a bit of all three. 

As he drinks the comforting words like nectar, Greg's pupils quietly swell. His cheeks darken. It takes him just a second to find the courage, and when he does, the intention crosses his eyes as clearly as if he'd whispered it.  _ Want to kiss you...  _

Drawing closer, Greg leans up and presses his mouth gently to Mycroft's. The hand on Mycroft's waist holds still, a little nervous, as Greg strokes his tongue over the seam of Mycroft's lips. It's a request, full of hope.  _ Want to kiss like this... please.  _

 

*

 

_ Yes, yes, of course you can. _

Mycroft can see it so easily, this permission Greg seems to need, the pleading request in his eyes. It makes him wonder, briefly, who told him  _ no _ , who could see this beautiful, kind man and refuse him anything at all. 

Whoever it was, they’re an idiot.

He parts his lips and kisses back, gently cupping Greg’s cheek. It’s as clear as he can make it-  _ yes, I permit, yes, you can, yes. _

_ I want this too. _

His hand runs over Greg’s shoulder, the soft skin, the lines of a man whose frame was built in sport and carried by a job that kept him on his feet. Perhaps not now- Mycroft has no idea how much time a DI might spend at a desk- but the outline is there, strong and steady. He brings his wandering touch down to Greg’s own hand, tentatively stilled at his waist, and gently nudges it back to motion on his skin.

“Thought I’d gotten your signature already,” he murmurs against Greg’s lips, thinking of Greg’s mouth against his hip, the ghost-touch of tongue-marked flesh cold in the air. “Not where I’d let anyone else see it, mind….”

He slides a hand against Greg’s chest, tracing his own name with a finger, nipple to nipple, elaborate in cursive.  It makes his cock twitch a little, this small indulgence in his possessive streak, and his lip twists up at the edge.

“But I suppose the way you sign you could put it anywhere you like and I would be pleased.”

 

*

 

Greg shivers as they kiss. He stirs into the stroke of Mycroft’s hands, every inch of his skin as responsive as if he’s never been touched in his life, and the encouragement to feel Mycroft’s body in return makes him moan. The sound is soft, blurred between their lips, a quiet rumble of longing. Greg can feel himself aching where he's hard against Mycroft’s stomach, his pulse fast and soft, quickening as he caresses Mycroft's bare back.

_ That voice,  _ he thinks.  _ That perfect, cool, intelligent voice. _ Mycroft would be amazing at phone sex. Away somewhere across the world - overseas meetings, a PA, air travel and posh suits - and at the end of the day, weary... maybe he'd like someone to call. Help him relax. Ease his jet lag.

_ Christ, I want to be friends. _

The smoothness of Mycroft's skin makes his hands feel good. Pleasure tingles in his fingertips. He nestles nearer, wrapping their bare legs together, and with another shiver brings his mouth up to Mycroft's ear. 

His eyes close; this is easier without his sight. He can pretend the world is just the two of them, just their skin, and he murmurs as he strokes the curve of Mycroft's lower back.

"When you're sitting at your posh desk tomorrow... think about me, maybe. Here." Brushing Mycroft's earlobe with his tongue, Greg draws in a lungful of his scent. The sigh as he exhales is bone-deep; his whole body softens in Mycroft's arms. "I'd spend the night on my knees, mouth full of your cock, if you wanted. I'd spent the night on my back underneath you. I'd spent the night on top of you. C-Christ, I don't mind. I just -  _ need _ to see what you look like when you fuck. When you come. Need to hear what sounds you make. I want to sit at my desk tomorrow, imagining you at yours, getting hard when you remember everything we did... everything we're about to do."

Taking Mycroft's ear between his teeth, Greg gives the gentlest of little tugs - teasing, his breath warm, as between them their erections nuzzle once more.

"D'you like oral?" he whispers, hopeful.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

_ Oh, fuck. _

_ “I'd spend the night on my knees, mouth full of your cock, if you wanted. I'd spent the night on my back underneath you. I'd spent the night on top of you.” _ Eyes wide and rapidly darkening, Mycroft shudders at the images brought to him by Greg’s descriptive, murmured tones, a look of blushing, pleased surprise crossing his face. 

When Greg is shy and tentative, Mycroft can hold himself together, hold them both together, reassuring. When Greg tells him what he  _ wants to do to him _ , however, Mycroft feels like he’s been tossed into a river of completely unbridled lust.  _ Oh god, I want all of it, yes, please. _ It’s going to last him a lot farther than tomorrow, even if he has to quiet the urge to bundle Greg into a car and make off with him to do all of it, and every single thing Mycroft can think of as well,  _ right now. _ His fingers run possessively over Greg’s pectorals, dancing over his collarbones. 

_ "D'you like oral?" Good lord. That sort of query is going to give me palpitations. _

“Love it.”  _ From you, most especially.  _

He swallows, his composure fragmenting. “I’m going to be lucky if I can manage any work tomorrow at all, thinking of you. My PA is probably going to kill both of us.” Anthea might, actually, if she hadn’t been able to rebook those meetings and Mycroft appeared looking… disheveled.

“If you see an unidentified woman in heels, just run, save yourself.”

 

*

 

Greg chuckles softly in Mycroft's ear, stirring as he eases Mycroft over onto his back. 

"Noted," he hums, and dips his head beneath Mycroft's chin. Kissing his neck, breathing in his scent and stroking his stomach with a hand, he murmurs, "Alternatively... I let her catch me, we go to a fancy wine-bar - PAs like fancy wine-bars, right?... - and I cheekily find out everything about you..."

He begins to kiss his way down - winding, breathing, stroking - soft, open-mouthed kisses that follow the trails of Mycroft's freckles, linger over his nipples for a few sly flashes of tongue, then continue onwards to his navel.

"Show up on your doorstep next week," Greg murmurs, nuzzling beneath his belly button. His hands curls snugly around Mycroft's cock. "... with roses, and a poem I wrote..."

As he starts to stroke, slow and easy, his mouth idles over to the head - a sweep of pink tongue, a lingering kiss. 

He gives a shy glance upwards.

"Put your hands in my hair?" he says, softly. He lets the hum of his voice pass through his lips to the very tip of Mycroft's cock. "Help me remember how this goes..."

 

*

 

“Such a romantic,” Mycroft breathes. “Though I believe PAs are specially trained to resist the wiles of handsome men.”

He laces his fingers through Greg’s hair- that gorgeous argent hair. Mycroft would be happy never to stop touching it. “I suppose you’ll simply have to interrogate me directly for my home address….”

A tremor courses through him, his hand tensing as Greg takes those first few laps over his cock. His hips tilt up, but he manages to stop himself from fucking into Greg’s mouth- it’s not that sort of liaison, he wants to guide, not hurry this along to a quick and easy ending.

“Seems to me you remember the start of things quite well.”

A groan escapes him as Greg’s mouth wraps him in soft, slick heat. A gentle start, thoroughly lapping the head before taking it in any deeper, teasing into a steady build. “That’s perfect- perfect, Greg-”

 

*

 

A shudder ripples through Greg's shoulders as he draws Mycroft gently into his mouth.  _ Oh, God... oh shit, I'm gay. Why did I marry a woman?  _ He'd forgotten this - how the hell did he ever forget it? - a guiding hand on his head; that perfect heady male scent, filling his nose and his lungs and his heart as he breathes it in; thickness on his tongue, thicker and thicker as he takes it deeper, his eyes fluttering shut with enjoyment. Inch-by-inch, Mycroft's cock fills his mouth. 

_ Oh, fuck... yes... _

His heart's pounding already. At the groan and whispered praise, he trembles and makes a sound of muffled longing, rubbing the underside of Mycroft's cock restlessly with his tongue.  _ Oh fuck, I love this... I want it. Let me stay here for an hour. Please.  _

_ Slow,  _ he has to remind himself.  _ Slow. Patient.  _ He brushes his shaking hands up onto Mycroft's stomach, petting - gentle patterns with gentle fingertips. The motion is as much to calm Greg as it is to please Mycroft. Trying to restrain his natural passion, he tries a lazy rhythm of slowly sliding back and forth, taking his time to settle them both to this. The sensation of Mycroft's cock easing in and out of his mouth makes him ache. He's never enjoyed doing this so much - and, as he guiltily recalls, he used to enjoy it rather a lot. He pushes his own erection nervously against the bed, craving that whisper of comforting friction, moaning softly as he gets it.

As he sucks, his senses blitzed with enjoyment and his eyes closed, breathing through his nose, Greg's thoughts stream with little variation. 

_ Fuck, fuck... let me make this good... let me do it right, oh fuck, want it to be good... fuck, please, tell me I'm good...  _

 

*

 

Mycroft lets out a low moan, tilting his head back and closing his eyes because the sight of Greg taking him slowly and steadily deeper feels like it may bring an end to things far too quickly, if the growing throb at the base of his cock is anything to judge by.

When was the last time he’d had this- someone eager, taking him into their mouth, caressing him with their tongue? Mycroft can’t even recall the name of the man who last gave him a quick burst of pleasure. It had been a hotel room, probably… someone from MI-6? An analyst? No one important, to be sure.

The brush of fingers over his stomach, the gentle sucking- it’s blissful pleasure, heady but not blinding.  _ Perfection. _

“Oh god,” he breathes, his voice husky, “god- Greg-”

His legs shift, the inside of his thighs brushing over Greg’s shoulders, wanting to feel as much of Greg as he can. The little things- a finger lazing over the bone of his hip, the flick of Greg’s tongue over his head- draw easy moans from him in open and unguarded enjoyment.

“Greg- yes- don’t stop- never stop-”

 

*

 

_ Never. _

_ Never, never.  _ For some reason, the brush of Mycroft's thighs either side of him makes Greg moan - his stomach tightens softly at the contact.  _ M'here, darlin'. M'not going.  _ He's already made up his mind that if Mycroft wants to come like this, he can. Mycroft can have whatever he wants. Greg just wants to be there to witness it. He shifts, inhaling and relaxing his throat to take Mycroft carefully into the top of it, and the slow movement makes it easy. He takes a hand from Mycroft's stomach to stroke the outside of his left thigh a little while, petting in rhythm. He finds his own breath has settled into the motion of it all. Nothing exists outside the bed anymore. There's just Mycroft, the sounds he makes as Greg gently winds his tongue from side-to-side, and the thought that this will be remembered in the morning.

_ Christ... fuck, if you asked...  _

Friends - just know each other - share this. 

_ You must need this, darlin'... politics. Stressful job. You must need to come with someone. Relax with someone. Forget with someone. _

_ I could be someone.  _

Reaching down, Greg cups Mycroft's balls gently in one hand, massaging in time with his mouth - easy, slow squeezes. It's pure instinct; it's what he used to like, feeling this. He's willing to try things just in case they feel good. His own cocks throbs desperately against the mattress, but he ignores it completely, concentrating instead on keeping his mouth wet and his tongue moving. Mycroft matters right now. 

Distracted reading Mycroft for signs of pleasure, focused on figuring out what's working, Greg hasn't realised that he himself is moaning softly around his mouthful.

 

*

 

_ He’s moaning. He’s moaning tasting me.  _

It’s the most thrilling noise he’s heard in ages. 

Mycroft makes himself breathe, a deep shuddering breath that fills him, gives him the strength to flicker his eyes open again, even as he feels the tight press of his cock in Greg’s throat. 

“Nnnn- fuck. Greg-”

There’s that hand on his balls, and Mycroft’s next word vanishes into a gasp. All this skill lurking behind shyness- he could have anything he wants, anything, people would pay to have it this good- and someone had made him tentative. Hesitant.  _ Utter insanity. _

“Greg- let me- fuck-” 

He breathes again, trying to focus.  _ Words. Speak coherent words. Figure it out, you aren’t being tortured.  _ His hands twitch in Greg’s hair, pulling him back long enough to manage it.

“Let me taste you- at the same time-”

Mycroft wants it, wants Greg’s cock in his own mouth, wants to make those moans  _ his _ , give Greg the same pleasure he’s getting. He has no idea how much longer he can last, especially if Greg keeps taking him into his throat, but he has to share it, has to show Greg how much he’s enjoying himself.

“Please-” 

 

*

 

Pulled back from Mycroft's cock, Greg's eyes open and flash up to his face at once, checking in concern for what he's misjudged. His shoulders tense.  _ Shit, what have I - ? _

Then comes the moan, the plea - and the relief courses through him in a rush. He breathes it out against Mycroft's stomach, letting his cock ease free from his mouth.  _ He wants together. Wants to share.  _ The thought alone makes Greg's entire body burn softly to itself: the two of them together, right now, serving Mycroft with his mouth while feeling Mycroft lick and suck him.  _ Oh fuck. Fuck please. _

He shakes as he eases out from between Mycroft's thighs, unable to stop himself kissing them as he passes.  _ Fuck, so soft. So warm.  _ He settles at Mycroft's side, tips himself back to lie down and shifts close, pulse hammering in his throat as he realises this is actually happening. Going down on Mycroft has left him so hard the ache is almost uncomfortable; he can feel and see himself leaking. The tip of his cock shines in the low light near Mycroft's head.

Tilting, with a half-twist of his body, he brings his mouth immediately back to Mycroft.  _ Want you. Need you. Need your sounds.  _ He wraps his hand into place, leans close and guides the head of Mycroft's cock to his lips, then starts licking gently - flat, soft sweeps of his tongue, a cat lapping water. His breath tightens.

"F-Fuck, you're... y-you feel good. You taste good..." The words break from his mouth, a sudden rush. "Please. Please, I... p-please, I want to feel - ..." 

He can't say it; something blocks the flow.  _ I want to feel you lick me. I want to feel your mouth.  _ It seems too much to voice, even now.

 

*

 

“Oh, look at you. Been neglecting you, haven’t I? And you’ve been so good to me.” 

Mycroft tilts himself in, gaining an excellent view of Greg’s glistening member, one hand caressing over Greg’s hip while the other wraps him at the base of his shaft. He inhales, filling his nose with the pure, manful scent that is  _ Greg _ , finding it makes his mouth water in anticipation. 

“Let’s fix that, shall we?”

He flicks his tongue out experimentally, slowly circling around the head, teasing and tasting. Then he kisses over it, open-mouthed and wet, and widens his lips, feeling out the thickness of Greg’s whole head and the sensation of having his mouth filled.

It’s luxurious, really, taking care of Greg like this while feeling his own cock be tended to. Every moan he extracts from Greg vibrates against him, deepening his own pleasure. 

He relaxes his jaw a bit more and takes in more of Greg’s lovely cock, tracing his tongue firmly along it as he begins to bob steadily.

_ Let me make you feel good, let me do that for you. _

 

*

 

Greg's moans tighten into whimpers within moments. His free hand shakes as it appears nervously on the back of Mycroft's head, scared to touch but too overcome not to. Mycroft's mouth is hot, and wet, his breath is soft, and just the thought that he's doing this for Greg makes his heart leap in unruly lurches. He immediately wants to come as if they've already been doing this for hours. At the same time, the thought of it ending floods him with an almost panicked distress. 

He doesn't want to think about her. It's the last thing he wants to think about.

But it's hard not to feel the barbs that she left. 

She hit him with words like 'pervert' and 'pest'. It felt like there was no defence against them - the second they were spoken, they were embedded in his skin and nothing would get them out. The more he pulled at them, distressed, the deeper they sank. After that, every longing was proof. Every tragic shower, leaning beneath the hot water and missing his old boyfriends, thinking about them, remembering the way they'd reached with trust for his body, ripped him apart with guilt. It made him feel a dirty old man. He tried talking to mates in the pub about it ("How often do you and...?"), and they all grumbled about 'Friday night if I'm lucky'. He still remembered the panic, thinking about it on the drive to work and home again each night.  _ Fucking hell, is this really it? I'm in my forties. I don't feel that old. I don't want this to be normal. I'm not a pervert. I just... like touch. _

Then all the others came to light, and it ended. 

Now there's Mycroft curled close to him - stroking his hip and moving his mouth around Greg, letting him moan, letting him suck Mycroft too. It's easy. It feels good, and it's happening like he's normal, like it's perfectly alright, like nothing could be more natural in the world than for him to want this. 

The sudden bubble of emotion tightens Greg's throat. It hitches his movements for a moment - there's a brief skip as he fights with it, breathing to try and soothe the sharpness.  _ Fuck. Fuck, shhh. It's alright. It's okay. He's not going. He'll be here a while. You can have him. _

He draws Mycroft deep into his mouth, shaking, his eyes tight shut. Their bodies sit together perfectly, a closed circuit of pleasure, every stroke of tongue and soft moan flowing into each other and given back, and Greg realises with a shiver across his bare back that he's stroking the nape of Mycroft's neck with his fingertips. It's a plea, turned into touch. _ Please, don't stop. Please just a little longer. Please. _

Mycroft isn't stopping; the pounding of Greg's heart echoes in every corner of his body.

_ Fuck, fuck. Fuck, I want this.  _

He inhales, sliding Mycroft gently into the top of his throat, bobbing. He fights to stop his hips from moving in rhythm, struggling to keep them still, concentrating on the fullness of his mouth and Mycroft's stomach pressed to his chest, the moans he can hear, the wet sound of his own tongue slick as it rubs.  _ Keep me. Keep me, let me learn. Keep me and I'll learn. Please. _

 

*

 

The part of him that can’t quite turn off his ability to  _ analyse  _ notes the hitch in Greg’s rhythm- Mycroft considers pausing himself, but Greg’s hand is gently on his neck, and he returns to the pattern even more deeply. 

_ He’s fine- just needed a breath, probably- don’t we all at this age. _

His own breathing shifts to accommodate a long moan around Greg’s cock when he feels his own slip against Greg’s throat- so hot and deep.  _ God. Perfect. _

Greg probably doesn’t even know he’s been thrusting gently as Mycroft takes him deeper, but Mycroft doesn’t mind- enjoys it, in fact, the clear instruction as to what rhythm Greg likes. He cups his hand about Greg’s arse, squeezing, encouraging.

_ You could fuck my mouth. I’d be happy to let you. _

He inhales and opens his throat. 

It’s been a while since he’s done this particular bit- quite a lot of the more recent dalliances he’s engaged in have been with those more attracted to his position than his appearance or his character, and thus convinced that they might better gain whatever it was they thought he had to offer if they engaged in most of the  _ work _ .

If they were  _ boring _ , Mycroft would let them. Perhaps not his most shining example of ethics, but so it was. 

Greg is not boring.  Greg makes him want to please, want to share, want to hear him utterly wracked by orgasm.

And then do it again.

He can’t remember a time when he knew he wanted an  _ again _ so badly, and he’d only known Greg for  _ hours.  _ Sherlock would say it was a match made in chemistry- balances struck in pheromones and hormones and the peculiar quirks of the mind in employing them. It strains Mycroft’s reason to realise he might be the greater romantic of the two of them. 

Greg’s cock brushes the back of his throat and he hums his way past gagging, bobbing off and going in once more, feeling the reflex quiet.

He smiles and does it again.

 

*

 

_ Oh. Oh fuck. Oh God.  _ Greg's whimper cuts with a gasp as Mycroft squeezes his arse, takes him deeper into the tightness of his throat. Panic flutters along with his pulse, but trust and pleasure are winning out. He feels safe held close to Mycroft, safe sharing their sounds like this - safe even with the man's cock in his throat. This shouldn't be comforting, but it is. Tentatively he begins to rock his hips, obeying the gentle grip on his arse.

The sensation nearly wrecks him - shaking, gently feeling, his cock aching and throbbing with Mycroft's mouth wrapped around him, that soft hum rippling through him, his body straining and begging, every muscle tightening. In no more than a minute, Greg's breath kicks up into panting. Trembling he wraps an arm around Mycroft's hips, nuzzling closer still, and the movements of his head grow tight and desperate. 

He's never wanted to feel someone come so much in his life. Every scrap of his restraint goes towards holding back his own relief, resisting it, shaking with the force of it. He needs Mycroft's enjoyment more than his own. The sounds now leaving him are primal, fragile and frantic, sounds that he couldn't recreate outside this moment. Some of them are turning into sobs, muffled by the ardent motions of his mouth. 

_ Please come. Please come. Please let me.  _ He won't be able to cope, and he knows it. He wants heat to flood down his throat. The second he feels it, he'll fall apart.  _ Please give it to me. Please. _

 

*

 

_ Oh god. Fuck. _

The increase in pace is affecting, especially with the incredible, wondrous noises slipping from Greg and replaying with ardent energy across his every nerve. Each one ripples through him, and Mycroft can feel himself creeping toward the edge.

He attempts to respond in equal measure, but Greg’s fervor makes it difficult to match the pace and he has to back off a bit just to keep his breath, panting as he resists the urge to let go. “Greg,” he breathes in a low warning, puffing against Greg’s cock. 

As a warning, it doesn’t seem to have much effect- in fact, it seems to trigger the opposite, as Greg redoubles his efforts. Mycroft gasps and Greg’s thickness swipes over his lip.

“Greg, I’m- clo-”

_ Fuck, fuck- oh- he wants me to- right down his throat- oh, fuck- _

A low moan escapes him, and he contents himself with kissing along Greg’s cock, enjoying that filling sensation in his mouth as the pressure in his core builds.

He feels his muscles clench- his hand squeezes tightly against Greg’s arse, both a warning and a base, desperate need to hang on- and then he’s on the wave, the deep sound that rises from him some stilted combination of Greg’s name and a euphoric shout of ecstasy. 

 

*

 

_ Yes. _

_ Yes, yes.  _

_ Yes... _

The cry is everything - the grip upon his body is everything. Greg shakes along with Mycroft as he pushes himself as close as he can go, reeling, wild with joy as heat hits the back of his throat. He's swallowing before he's even thought about it. His soul seems to flood with relief, and he breathes his way hard through Mycroft's orgasm, slowing his mouth and easing right down. He holds Mycroft tightly, stroking his lower back with a hand. 

Shock pulses through the empty space where he used to have a brain. 

_ Fuck, fuck... fuck...  _ it's the only word left. The rest are gone. They didn't matter; he didn't need them. He just needed this, and it's healing wounds that nothing else seems to reach.

It's only as he lets Mycroft's cock slip from his mouth, shivering with satisfaction and his throat raw, that Greg realises he's still hard. He hasn't come yet. His breath hitches. Mycroft's orgasm felt like his - he longed for it so much. 

Panting, pressing his flushed cheek against Mycroft's stomach, Greg drops his gaze to the man who just came down his throat. 

His pupils are gigantic.

_ "Fuck," _ he whispers, lost.

He hopes that Mycroft understands.

 

*

 

Everything is white.

_ Ah, so the stories were true. You can go blind after all. _

Mycroft blinks.  _ No- still here. Bed. Greg’s bed.  _ It’s Greg’s hand on him, the brush of Greg’s hair against his stomach. 

His thoughts have spread themselves out into the universe and they are slow to reassemble, but he doesn’t think he’s ever come hard enough previously to think he’s either been blinded or possibly just left his own body. 

He blinks again, forces air into his lungs that exhales in a sighed “Oh god.” His hand is still clinging about Greg- he falls onto his back, shuddering slightly as, with adrenaline and the sheer power of lust wearing off, his body remembers that, barring fitful sleep on the plane, it hasn’t truly rested in approximately thirty-one hours. He lets out a huff of amusement. Anthea is not going to be amused. There will be words for him on his choice not to drug himself into sleeping on the plane. Assuming that she doesn’t cotton on to any lingering signs of intercourse first.

Another deep inhale, a brief check that all systems are still present and functional- brain, possibly, excluded- and he finally takes in the fact that he does not have a recollection of  _ Greg _ finding his release.

His eyes slide first to the wet, throbbing member still beside him, then up to Greg’s enormous, needy eyes, and suddenly he finds his mind does have one remaining directive he must complete before he can let himself fall toward sleep. “Oh, look at you.” Mycroft rolls onto his shoulder, taking in Greg’s debauched look. He nuzzles his cheek against Greg’s thigh and gently pushes him over onto his back, bringing his own legs closer and sitting up so he can wrap both hands around Greg by the waist, thumbs running over the lovely bones of his hip. “I’m going to take care of you, beautiful.”

He licks one single long stripe up the underside of the shaft, using it as a gauge, eyes on Greg’s and watching for any sign of overstimulation.  _ Gentle, gentle- ah. _ A flicker of something- something pained?- crosses Greg’s eyes, and Mycroft instinctually reaches out to clasp one of his hands. “I’ve got you.”

A smile crosses his lips as he eases his mouth back down.

 

*

 

Greg grips Mycroft's hand at first as if afraid this might hurt. He forces himself to loosen his grasp, huffing out a whimper, feeling his pulse thud faster and faster.  _ Fuck. Please.  _ The first stroke of tongue tightens every muscle in his thighs; he watches, panting, as Mycroft's mouth slides around him.

_ Oh. _

_ Fuck. _

That gorgeous mouth, taking him deep.  _ 'I'm going to take care of you, beautiful. I've got you.'  _ The words melt Greg's panic into longing.  _ Please. Take care of me. Please.  _ Heat and wetness, wrapping around him, living silk and he's so hard that every tiny stroke of tongue almost burns. He's aching, his balls drawn tight. His fingers shake within Mycroft's grip.  _ Oh fuck. I'm so close. Close, close.  _ Each deep, desperate breath drags him closer, relaxation rushing through his body in a wave, and in its wake rolls hot and liquid pleasure.  _ Wants me to come. Making me - fuck. Taking care of me.  _ Mycroft's mouth, Mycroft's hand. Mycroft's climax, sliding through him. Mycroft's cock, Mycroft's sounds, Mycroft's skin.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

The first hint of rhythm is all it takes - the first purposeful movement to pleasure him.  _ Fuck, coming - coming, coming, coming -  _

_ Oh, fuck -  _

_ Oh -  _

Greg writhes. His hips arch -  _ oh fuck, please -  _ his breath comes sharp and shocked, breaking into a moan that doesn't end. It simply changes, twisting with him, high-pitched one moment and stuttering the next, falling low into his throat as relief pours through his entire body. The sound streams its way through gasped profanities and cracked pieces of Mycroft's name, whimpers that strain and snap in his throat, and at the very peak a single cry. He doesn't let go of Mycroft's hand. He clings, tight; the other bunches white-knuckled in the sheets beside him.

When it leaves him, it leaves him filmed with sweat and panting in shock, his entire body trembling. The depth of the noise almost sounds like sobs.

 

*

 

If Mycroft was capable, the sound of Greg’s orgasm would have shot him directly back to full hardness. He’ll be replaying that in his head for a certainty, quite possibly for years- the cry and the tight grip on his hand, the hips bucking into his throat.

_ Beautiful. _

The taste lingers on his tongue, sharp and slightly salted- it’s familiar but also new and welcome.  _ Tastes of him.  _ He lets his head fall, gently brushing his nose over Greg’s thigh, sweat and musk burrowing into his lungs where Mycroft tries to record every detail.

But Greg is still shaking, still making those low, wracked noises.

Mycroft’s mind is aching, wrapped in the cotton gauze that comes with sleep-deprivation, but something about it doesn’t quite sit right with him. He wants to hold Greg and stroke his hair until he’s back to himself.

He unwraps his hand from Greg’s hip but leaves their joined pair together as he shifts up on his knees to bring his lips in a gentle kiss against Greg’s forehead, carding his fingers through sweat-dampened silver hair.

“Still with me?”

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

_ Jesus fucking Christ. _

Greg gasps through his heaving lungs, feeling the bed roll beneath his back as he drifts. Pleasure's still aching its way through him; his every muscle feels stretched out. His head is whirling.

He can't think. 

More to the point, he realises at once that he shouldn't. 

The second he feels his throat start to tighten, Greg inhales. He draws air quietly through his nose, down and deeper into his lungs, concentrating on that feeling of his chest rising around the breath. It's a technique he was taught in the first week of police training, half his lifetime ago, and it now happens without conscious decision. He's used it at murder scenes, seeing ordinary people who've been dumped somewhere, turned inside out. He's used it in interviews, watching murderers lie to him with a polite smile. He used it in court, listening to Karen's lawyer stand up and announce they're filing a counter-suit regarding his unreasonable behaviour.

_ Easy. Slow.  _

_ All alright. _

The air spreads through Greg's body, dousing the frantic surge of emotion with all the efficiency of a chemical fire extinguisher. On his outbreath, he exhales it all away. Once is usually enough - but he rolls through the cycle once again to feel safe, desperate to keep it all back from the surface.  _ It'll look just like steadying breaths. It's okay. _

He can't let it be seen - what Mycroft just did for him. What it meant. 

If he sees that, he'll see the shadow of the rest. He'll see the mess and the misery and the wounds. Greg doesn't want Mycroft to see them, not for anything in the world. He wants to be, even just for the night, a Greg Lestrade he used to be - happy, easy, comfortable enough in himself to come with someone, to share a little pleasure and not break into flaming fucking chunks of his own soul in the afterglow.

He tells himself it's hormones, and it's been a while - and it's alright. 

By the end of the second outbreath, it's faded enough for him to cope with it. He can push it gently away, add it to the pile of  _ deal with this shit later,  _ and open his dazed eyes.

He discovers Mycroft just an inch away. His heart thuds, crippling him with a rush of sugary affection, and Greg hopes the helpless smile that breaks over his face is enough to cover anything from before that came up through the cracks. He gazes at Mycroft, happy and aching; relief shines in his eyes.

He squeezes Mycroft's hand.  _ Fuck. Yes.  _ His other lifts - he hesitates, asking himself briefly what the fuck he thinks he's doing, but he's so raw and open in this moment that he can't stop himself. Something tells him Mycroft won't mind.

He cups Mycroft's face, his fingers shaking. He runs a thumb across Mycroft's lower lip, nervous even as he smiles.

"You're amazing," he thinks, bands of pain and fondness tightening around his chest.

He then realises those words were curiously audible - and Mycroft had just heard them, too.

_ Oh.  _

_ Oh, Christ. _

 

*

 

Mycroft watches Greg’s face fondly and with a hint of concern nudging the back of his steadily crashing mind.

_ That looks much like suppression of a pani- no, stop it. No analysing. If you start with that he’ll never speak to you again. He’ll tell you if it’s anything you need to know. _

Greg’s eyes open and Mycroft’s worry flees, replaced with warm, euphoric tenderness. He looks joyful- Mycroft really is too tired to be analysing, he must have gotten it wrong- how fortunate he said nothing, else that might have been embarrassing. 

_ “You’re amazing.” _

He looks faintly surprised that he said it- Mycroft’s heart skips in adoration of his lovely, stunned smile. A lopsided grin rises to his own lips and he presses them in a chaste kiss to Greg’s thumb. 

“I think you are fairly spectacular as well, as it happens.”

Easing himself down on his shoulder and into the bend of Greg’s arm feels natural- as though he just fits there, correctly, his head resting in the soft dip beside Greg’s pec. He runs his hand idly over Greg’s stomach, light brushes of his fingertips on warm skin.

They should probably shower. Or towel off. Something. But Mycroft is too comfortable and relaxed to get up and... _oh no_. His jet lag is finally refusing to be ignored and he's fading. Quickly.

_ Just a minute or two here, then I’ll clean up… check the phone… work out what time to have a car come round…. _

A blink, and he feels the biological pull to be asleep _right now._ “Greg, I should warn you, when I said ‘jet lag’... I meant I haven’t really slept in- something north of thirty hours, I’m not entirely sure what time it is now- and there is a distinct possibility that I am going to nod off soon...”

He feels sleep coming for him, his hand stilling, his breath shifting.  _ Too comfortable. Too warm.  _ He tries to breathe himself awake with a deep inhale, continuing to speak even though his voice is just a soft murmur.

“I’ll have to go home and get another suit at some point or she’ll have to bring me one and I won’t hear the end of it, so I’m hoping you’re planning to get up early….”

 

*

 

Protectiveness floods through Greg in a rush. 

"It's okay," he whispers, his heart beating hard. Still dazed with orgasm, his every instinct is to make Mycroft happy - to make him comfortable and safe and warm, and see him rest. It's all he wants in the world. "I-I'm up at half five - early shift - out of here by seven. Is that okay?"

He gazes at Mycroft, watching him softly fade.  _ Christ, gorgeous... you need to sleep... I want to keep you safe while you do. Oh fuck, you're wonderful.  _

"I'll get up and put some breakfast together," he says, his heart squeezing. "You - can't try and get home like this. You'll collapse in a doorway somewhere. Sleep here. It's okay."

Shivering, he eases himself off the bed.

"Rest there," he says. "I'll just - " 

He slips into the bathroom. When he returns a minute later, holding a warm and damp hand-towel, he's almost surprised to find Mycroft is still there - he's not vanished like a ghost, gone as soon as Greg took his eyes away.

Climbing back onto the bed, Greg settles nervously down beside him.

_ God, you're nearly asleep... _

"Hey," he murmurs, in case Mycroft  _ is  _ asleep. He doesn't want to scare him. "S'just me..." He sweeps the towel gently over Mycroft's stomach. "Just cleaning you off, posh boy. Made a mess of you..."

 

*

 

“Five’s fine- thank you….”

Mycroft feels something warm and wet trail over him. He’s apparently so tired that he can barely see straight anymore- there’s just silvery hair catching the light and soft skin. He should be embarrassed that he’s too exhausted to get up and do this himself, but his mind is no longer functional enough to process the emotion.

“S’nice, Greg,” he mutters, drifting off into darkness.

Around four in the morning, his phone begins to vibrate. Once, twice. Texts. A few minutes later, the familiar pattern of a call, repeated again five minutes later.

Mycroft shifts in his sleep, some distant part of him recognizing the noise, but it’s not close enough to force him out of slumber, not when he’s comfortably tucked in to the warmth of Greg’s arm wrapping about him. 

At precisely 4:30, a pair of sharp, clipping heels ascend the stairs and make their way down the hall to Greg’s door. She knocks. 

Apparently no one answers swiftly enough for her liking, as she expertly picks the lock and leans into the apartment, holding an expensive suit out in front of her like armor in case this is yet another instance like the MI-6 agent who’d nearly shot her when she came to retrieve him. “Mr. Holmes, are we decent?”

Mycroft’s head snaps up, breath rushing into his lungs as he feels for the sheets, not that she hasn’t seen something like this before. “Anthea. Out.”

“Sorry, sir, but…” her eyes run consideringly over the other figure in the bed, and she steps in, closing the door and giving Mycroft a rather rakish  _ well done, you _ look. “-your first meeting is in a bit of a situation with their, ah, northern counterparts, and they refused to take a later time.”

She seems possibly a little too delighted about it. Mycroft glares, but that stopped working on her years ago. “I’ve your ‘I am very threatening’ suit and the car’s outside. Hello Mr. Lestrade,” she nods toward him with a thin, wolfish smile as the other party in the bed starts to shift. 

 

*

 

_ This is a dream.  _

Greg's almost sure of it - but then, his dreams are never this weird. There's a woman in his flat brandishing a suit-bag who seems to know his name  _ (How the hell did she get through the...? Never mind...)  _ and Mycroft Holmes is lying next to him naked, their skin still close, bare legs still semi-tangled.

Wide-eyed, half-asleep and with his hair scruffed on end, Greg nervously checks the sheet and sits up, staring at the new arrival as if she has large glittery wings or three heads.

"Erm - h-hi..." 

It's so weird he can't help it. He glances at Mycroft, flushing; humour twists his mouth.

"'A very minor position'?" he quotes, gathering the sheets against his chest. 

 

*

 

“Very. Minor.” He doesn’t bother saying it very convincingly. 

Mycroft sighs through his nose and grabs one of the pillows to serve his modesty so Greg can keep the sheets, until he gets gets close enough to the couch to swipe a blanket and wrap that about his waist instead. 

“Stop smirking,” he hisses as he gets close enough to Anthea to snatch the suit away from her. 

“You’re lucky I checked the local footage first. Could’ve come in here with a gun, thinking you’d been abducted.”

He scoffs and sweeps into the bathroom. 

Anthea leans against the kitchen counter and watches Greg with an enigmatic smile, smoothing a hand over her pencil skirt. “So. You’re in the Met. That must be fun.”

 

*

 

Greg's heart tugs a little as he watches Mycroft vanish into the bathroom. He'd not been expecting company this morning - it looked as if a quiet breakfast was off the cards. He'd been planning to work up the courage to ask if Mycroft had an e-mail address or a phone number maybe. He didn't seem like the kind of guy who could be casually tracked down on Facebook.

Rubbing the sheet quietly between his fingers, he looks back at Anthea with a blink. 

_ Christ, exactly how much do you know about me?  _

"Major Crimes," he says, a little guarded, very aware of his clothes scattered about the floor. The remains of their takeaway are still sitting on the coffee table. "Yeah, it's a barrel of laughs. You've - looked me up, have you?"

 

*

 

“Mmm. Something like that.” Her head tilts. “You don’t really seem like the sort, but on the off chance you’re considering doing anything, mm, unwise with any information you have learned- you should know I take people that try to deliberately… inconvenience… Mr. Holmes very seriously.”

Her eyes glitter in a way that suggests solutions to said inconvenience may include permanent relocation to an Arctic iceberg. 

The door to the bathroom opens. Mycroft has his trousers and shirt on and is in the process of doing up the waistcoat over a blood red tie. Anthea had not been kidding about the threatening nature of the suit- his appearance is a stark contrast to the light, comparatively casual one he’d been wearing the day before. This is an intimidating dark number with thin white stripes, very formal and serious. “Anthea.  _ Out.” _

“Yes, sir. Car’s running.” She smirks at Greg. “Do have a lovely day, Mr. Lestrade.”

Her heels click down the hall and Mycroft sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Greg- I’m so sorry, my job is… difficult, at the best of times and encroaching for the rest.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, intending to get his shoes on, but he finds himself turning to regard Greg, tentatively extending a hand to rest on his leg and flushing with embarrassment at the ridiculousness of the whole scenario.

_ Broke into your flat and woke you up naked. I’m so sorry. Please don’t think ill of me. _

“I… was hoping for more time with you this morning. Perhaps- perhaps arrange a proper….”  _ Date.  _ “But- given the intrusion, I’ll understand if you don’t….”

 

*

 

As he gets his first look at his very minor politician in full armour, Greg's heart gives a distinct and ungainly squish.  _ Posh boy. Posh man. Oh Jesus.  _ This is a whole new level, he realises - this isn't just posh he's stumbled across. It's not ex-public school boys using big words and drinking champagne at two in the afternoon. This is something different. It's  _ power.  _

Mycroft is a big deal.

He's a big fucking deal, and he's sitting on Greg's bed in the dark - apologising, touching Greg's skin.

_ Oh, God... oh my God, is this - _

_ Is this something big? _

_ Christ, no... it can't be.  _ Greg remembers big. He remembers that, in the beginning, it feels an awful lot like this - like your eyes just can't bring themselves to move away their face; like their voice is the only thing you want to listen to right now. Greg knows all too well that he's lonely, and that loneliness can make nothing seem like everything. 

All the same... this feels big.

As Mycroft uses the word 'arrange', Greg's heart slides at once into his throat. 

He sits up, a little round-eyed, and lays his fingers over Mycroft's hand on his leg.  _ You want to see me again. You want to know me, spend more time with me... fuck, you want to know me.  _

_ I want to know you, too. _

"It's alright," he hears himself say, smiling like his heart's not about to do itself an injury. "I know what it's like... duty calls."

He pushes a little closer, lays a hand on Mycroft's leg too -  _ shit, posh trousers... posh stripes... -  _ and meets those gorgeous grey-blue eyes. Breathing in, he tells himself to be brave. If this has any chance of being big, he has to give it a chance. 

"I - l-like you. You're..."  _ Amazing.  _ "You just seem - I think we get on really well, and..."  _ Christ, man, say it.  _ "You should come for a drink sometime. With me. I-If you wanted. We could meet at the café... or a bar, or... somewhere posh. Make you feel at home."

He smiles, knowing he's started to ramble. He blushes, cringing, and pulls his lip between his teeth.

"I'll think of some more policeman jokes," he offers, and his eyes flash with hope. "Good ones, I promise."

 

*

 

“Yes. Yes, I would… like that.”  _ Any of that.  _ Mycroft’s eyes glitter. “I shall endeavor to come up with a few jests for myself.” He arches a brow. “Assuming they are not all… classified.”

_ Do cease biting your lip, Greg, or I shall be unable to depart and Anthea will likely come back up here with a firearm to abscond with me forcefully. _

But perhaps he can allow himself one indulgence. 

Mycroft gently squeezes Greg’s leg and leans forward. The moonlight highlights the outline of Greg, his sturdy shoulders, the unruly, slept-in thickness of his hair. He tries to memorize it, hold it within himself- it will be a boon when the South Koreans inevitably drag his first meeting on because the Americans are, unsurprisingly, refusing to be helpful.

His hand cups the back of Greg’s head and pulls him close. 

_ I enjoy your company. I will see you again soon. _

He presses their lips together softly, chastely, but full of promise.

 

*

 

Greg softens at once under Mycroft's touch. He leans into the pull without a flicker of thought, as gentle and trusting as a loved cat, and as their lips meet he almost melts. He exhales a little shakily through his nose, his chest flushing warm with relief, and his hands comes up to cup Mycroft's face to hold him.

He doesn't want to let go. 

He knows he has to - but this moment will be his guard against the doubt. He knows it's going to come. When it does, he needs this memory. He needs these few seconds of a gentle hand pulling him close, soft lips against his own, the quiet wrapped around them like a blanket, and he wants to remember it in every detail. He needs it to feel as vivid and intense when he remembers it as it does right now.  _ This really happened. You were really here. I've kissed you, and you've slept in my arms, and you've heard me come. This wasn't a mad dream.  _

_ I'll see you again. _

As his fingers shake a little, Greg pulls himself together and eases back. He can't quite suppress the small shiver that runs down his back. Forehead still pressed to Mycroft's, his eyes closed and his voice low, he murmurs,

"D'you - need my number, or do I take it that's now on file somewhere?" A nervous grin crosses his face. "You'll just kidnap me, right? Have me dragged into a car without warning, driven off somewhere..."

 

*

 

Mycroft arches a brow, grinning. “If you like, that could probably be arranged.”

He pulls back regretfully, letting his fingers linger on the back of Greg’s neck, but it’s been long enough- and he still has to sweep up the scattered remnants of his clothes from the day before. He finds his suit coat first, his wallet secured in a discreet inside pocket, and extracts a slim, nondescript business card with  _ M.H. _ written on one side and a phone number on the back. 

Bringing it over to Greg, he takes another long, absorbent look over the lovely, fit man- all rumpled sheets and flashes of skin. 

_ Beautiful. _

“I  _ can _ acquire your number, but you should have mine as well. That’s the direct, which means it bypasses my lovely assistant’s ability to intercept it.”

He puts on the coat of his formal suit last, completing his transformation into the British Government. It even alters his posture- the relaxed man reading a book with a cat in his lap could barely be recognized for the stern, serious one he is now- it’s only the remaining hint of the smile he has for Greg that links them.

_ Suit, phone, brolly…. We shouldn’t have let the takeout sit, I suppose, but there’s nothing for it now. _

“I… enjoyed myself, Greg.” 

It feels like there should be more to say, more to do… but he can’t delay any longer.

“Have a… good day.”

He walks briskly out, the British Government not the sort to be seen lingering outside flats in hours before dawn. Yet he has managed to forget one thing- a well-worn copy of  _ Silver on the Tree _ sitting on Greg’s counter.

 

*

 

Greg stays beneath the sheets for half an hour more, not sleeping - just thinking in the quiet. He can't bring himself to get up and make the bed, smooth away the creases Mycroft has left. He doesn't want to clean up the coffee table, wash their plates and wine glasses, put the takeaway containers in the bin. He doesn't want to shower and wash away the touches. 

He wants them to stay on his skin. 

He can almost feel them painted there - soft silver tracks across his body where fingers have stroked, where Mycroft's mouth has brushed, where their legs tangled gently in the night. The thought of scrubbing them away leaves him almost ill with distress. He wants to wear them like he was once proud to wear a wedding ring. 

_ Wanted,  _ he wants to tell the world.  _ Someone's. Just for a while. _

He has to get himself to work soon. He has to pick up all the threads of he left there yesterday, and make sense of them again as if the world is in any way the same place that it was. He has to make lunch. It seems unbearably weird. Stand at his counter, make a sandwich and wrap it up in cling-film, then eat it later at his desk, as if he didn't spend the night with someone gorgeous cuddled naked in his arms.

Someone gorgeous whose PA probably now knew his date of birth, blood-type and medical history.  _ Christ.  _ He can't stop thinking about Mycroft in that bloody suit, oozing power and authority as he stood beside Greg's bed in the dark.

After half an hour of thinking, dazed, Greg realises he's still holding the business card.

_ Need to add this to contacts. Now. Before I bloody lose it.  _ The thought turns his stomach. He'd rather lose a finger than this card. Finally finding himself with a reason to get out of bed, he pushes back the sheets and tracks down his phone on the coffee table.

He turns it over to find he has a text from his brother, 8% battery - and two missed calls from Karen. 

They came, by his best estimate, when he and Mycroft were in bed.

The thought rises a strange, wild, almost savage happiness behind Greg's ribs. She was sitting somewhere, greedy to hear him stumble through a brave attempt at covering up the smoking wreckage of his life - while he had Mycroft in his arms, beautiful, willing, moaning softly for him as they had sex for the first time.

Now he has a business card, and a number, and that last kiss still lingering on his lips.

Heart drumming, he deletes her calls from his history.  _ Not your business how I am,  _ he thinks, and it feels so good his hand shakes a little. It feels like striking an iron chain from around his wrist.  _ Think what you think. _

He finds the book just as he's leaving for work. 

It takes him a second to put two-and-two together, confused by this strange addition to his house. When he realises, his heart jumps into his mouth at once. He looks towards the door as if Mycroft hasn't been gone for well over an hour, feeling like he should give chase to give it back.

_ No,  _ he thinks.  _ No - perfect. Perfect reason to... in a couple of days... _

Greg picks up the book gently, his heart beating hard. It feels like he's somehow looking after a pet for Mycroft - a hamster or something, while he's on holiday. He knows already that he's going to treat the thing as if it's made of glass.

On his lunch, eating his ham sandwich at his desk, Greg has a quiet google on his phone. It turns out it's the last in a series. They're meant for older children, but God knows he's read enough of this stuff to his nieces. He almost prefers their books sometimes - brave characters, happy endings, loyal friends who do the right thing.

He orders the first on Amazon, smiling to himself, and tells Sally he's just enjoying his sandwich today.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

“Well.” Anthea smirks into her phone from the other seat in the car. “Jet lag, was it?”

“Status report now, judgements on my personal life later, thank you.” 

Much as she might have a bit- possibly a large bit- of regular entertainment at his expense, Anthea does have her position for a reason. She launches in a full assessment of the current issues with the Koreas and the predictably heavy-handed botching of the entire situation by the Americans.

At least there are pastries and coffee awaiting him at the office.

He doesn’t have time to himself again, time to think about things other than politics and discourse and best actions, until lunch- salad, as he is chronically  _ watching his figure _ , and sex can only burn off so many calories from decadent, sinful cake.

_ Speaking of sex…. _

He’d been rushed getting ready, basically doing a spin in Greg’s shower and hoping for the best, but he’d inadvertently given himself a gift in the form of a quick rinse with Greg’s body wash. The scent was a bit more overtly masculine than his normal rather tame, understated preferences, but it matched the delicious memory of Greg, nude and groaning softly in his arms. 

He had to suppress a grin every time it crossed his mind, but now that he’s alone he can smile all he likes. 

Which is why he’s grinning like an idiot when Anthea comes back through the door, tapping on her phone. “Still  _ very _ pleased with ourselves, are we?” She doesn’t even look up. He doesn’t question how she  _ does that _ \- he has enough experience with people asking how he  _ does that _ , after all.

“You aren’t getting details.”

“I don’t need details, sir, I saw enough for myself.” Her eyes lift. “Have you run his security screening yet?”

Mycroft’s smile falters. “I was a bit busy this morning, you know. I’ll get to it.”

“I should do it, sir.”

He inhales. Yes, technically, there was a conflict of interest, but that hadn’t stopped him from reviewing  _ personal _ reports before. But that isn’t what she means. “It’s not really the same situation at all-”

“You don’t know him and yes, it could be.” She crosses her arms, arching a brow at him, her phone tucked away. This was the other side of her job talking, the side that wasn’t just a PA, but a woman who ran his personal security detail with an iron fist and had permission to look at the security feeds of his own home when required. 

“He’s police,” he says almost plaintively.

“Police can be idiots too. Let me run the check.”

He sighs.  _ How nice it must be to simply trust. _ “Fine.”

She nods and slides back out of her security mode, arching a playful brow at him. “So would you like his number after, maybe, any close-ups of surveillance we’ve got of him in uniform-”

“Out,” he gestures with his fork. “You incorrigible busybody.”

After she leaves, he brings his wrist to his nose, smelling the fading woodsy scent. 

_ I miss you already. _

 

*

 

Last time Greg was dating, the rule was no calling before three days had gone by - and calling it was, with a phone that could be used for phone calls and nothing else, attached to the kitchen wall by a cord. 

He's got a feeling things might have moved on since then. 

If he could trust Sally not to ask too many questions, he might have drummed up the courage to ask her. She doesn't go on that many dates, but she goes on more than he does. In the end, he can't find the right moment. There's no casual way to crack open that conversation.  _ "So there was a posh boy in the cat cafe. We had amazing oral, he slept with me all night, then his assistant broke into my flat and stole him back. When can I text him?" _

He also worries that her answer would be something he doesn't want to hear.  _ 'Next week', _ maybe. Worse,  _ 'don't - wait for him to text you'. _

In the end, he takes the tragic option: bloody googling it. 

He spends Thursday evening sitting on his couch with chicken casserole and a bottle of Hobgoblin, scrolling through wildly differing advice on his phone. Some people seem to think twenty-four hours is the new standard; some say he should have texted Mycroft within fifteen minutes, which seems terrifyingly eager. Maybe the young don't have time to waste on lengthy courtship these days. According to "a recent study" Greg finds on the Cosmo website, 89% of women now expected to be texted within forty-eight hours - which seems pretty reasonable, really.

Mycroft, of course, is not a woman. He probably isn't an avid reader of Cosmo either - but it feels like a fair guideline.

Really, Greg wants to text him  _ now.  _ They were here together this time yesterday, sitting on this couch, eating, talking, drinking wine. Greg's entire body now aches to know whether Mycroft's thinking about him. If he admits it to himself, he's thought about Mycroft nearly every hour he's been awake. He can't  _ stop _ himself thinking about the man. His emotions have rolled around him all day like a runaway fairground ride, whirling from happy, sated horniness to almost fluttering panic, round through a dizzy confidence he's not felt in months, jolts of worry that he's exaggerated it all in his mind, a plunging fear that he'll get fucked up again - and beneath it all, thumping in him like a second heart, a longing that cuts his breath whenever he dwells on it. 

He doesn't care about the fear and the worry. He'll risk it - all of it - he just wants to see Mycroft again. 

Soon.

Christ, he doesn't want to seem desperate though. 

He  _ is  _ desperate, of course. Utterly. He types out six or seven messages ( _ "good day? :)" - "hi just checking I got your # right... its greg by the way ;)" - "hey guess who? ;)").  _ He sits with his thumb hovering over 'Send' for a while, agonising - then opts each time for 'Delete', his heart sinking with both relief and disappointment.

He's got to have some restraint. It's important - he knows his own capacity to fall fast, and fall hard. He knows, too, that he's still walking wounded. Karen swept off with every friend he ever had. It means Mycroft's the only hope he has right now.

But the last thing he needs is for Mycroft to realise that.

The guy isn't an ordinary person. The suits, the PA, the sleek little business card... Greg can't screw this up, being clingy too soon. It's torture, but he has to be strong.

He sleeps heavily on Thursday night, wakes up feeling pretty calm on Friday, and gets into work to find the fun's kicking off bright and early. It's eleven o'clock before the dust starts to settle and he's back in his office. 

Sally fetches him a coffee. (She's a star.) He gets halfway through his e-mails, then realises his attention is wandering - and wandering in only one direction. There's a strange tingle in his fingertips, and a tightness in his stomach.

_ Could be alright now. Couldn't it? _

_ Not the same day, but... next day. Mid-morning. Something breezy. _

_ Just a quick hi. Would be fine. _

Sliding his phone nervously from inside his jacket, Greg bites the corner of his lip. He holds it for a minute, thinking, gazing at the new name he added to his contacts yesterday morning. 

_ Yep.  _

_ Do it, Lestrade. Now or never. Do it, and if he doesn't text back... well, we'll deal with that. Somehow. _

He selects 'New Message', unbreathing, and types quickly and easily in an attempt to convince himself he's cool with this.  _ Just a quick text,  _ he tells himself.  _ Check the number... not a big deal.  _

Hitting 'Send' is the most horrifying thing he's done in months, but he does it - one firm no-nonsense tap, and the message is on its way.  _ There. Done. Can't exactly get it back. _

Greg closes his messages right away.  _ He won't text straight back. Forget about it now. Put it out of your head.  _ He slides the phone away inside his jacket, finishes his coffee and goes back to his e-mails, trying to pretend his heart isn't at risk of cracking one of his ribs. 

 

[11:13]  _ hey... found your missing book yet? ;) Hope I've got your # right... GL x _

 

*

 

Thursday ends relatively early, as far as Mycroft’s typical days go- the benefits of working primarily in East Asian time zones- and Anthea ensures, by bundling him into the car herself, that he goes home and does not go wandering toward cats or certain argent-haired policemen.

She’ll have the results of the security screening by the next morning.

Mycroft could ask for her to acquire Greg’s number- he could do it himself, really- but he tries to exercise restraint. Their security measures are in place for good reason. Even if all he sees in Greg is honesty and a desire to trust….

Well, Mycroft never did lead a normal life. He ought to be used to this by now.

On Friday, his engagements are, relatively speaking, far easier: managing the interplay of power dynamics amongst the other European countries that don’t mind his direct intercession because they know it gets them results.

He’s somewhat surprised when he sees his phone blink on his desk. He has it set not to show any details, of course, so he has to pick it up and unlock it to see the text.

His heart flutters.  _ GL. _ It makes him smile out of sheer fondness, though he also shakes his head at the abbreviative nature of it- the questionable use of capitalization and the symbology, though he understands that is a custom amongst… normal people. 

The x at the end gives him a particular thrill- he is aware of the meaning, at least, and it is utterly endearing that Greg would choose to include it.

Yet-  _ missing book.  _ Had he… oh, no, he had. He could picture it, must have walked right past it. Not the sort of book he really wants to leave places, either- everyone always expects him to be reading Machiavelli or Sun Tzu. Hopefully Greg wouldn’t look too poorly on it, if he chanced to read the back cover.

It says a great deal about his instinctual fondness for Greg that he was so distracted as to forget about a book in his possession. It was far more often the opposite- so engrossed as to cut off the outside world entirely. 

He puts his fingers in the right spots to type, but he can’t think of what to say. It was the sort of thing that he could sometimes ask Anthea… perhaps not when he was still awaiting her to accost him with the results of her digging through Greg’s life and rifling for every last potential flaw. She might tell him not to and… he didn’t want that. 

So… what would he say if he was just… speaking?

 

[11:20]  _ I trust it is in good hands. Unless you are planning to hold it hostage? MH _

 

He’s joking.  _ But you know text does not always translate humor.  _ And there is that matter of the little x…. 

Mycroft mulls it over, feeling a little pang of panic the more time ticks on. He’s absolutely horrid at this end of things when it’s his own personal life, even if he can manage the affairs of  _ several _ countries at once.

 

[11:22]  _ You do have the correct number. MH x _

 

*

 

Seven minutes is just long enough for Greg to start believing himself that there's no reply coming until at least this evening. It means that the sudden buzz against his chest makes him jump, then nearly spill his coffee wrestling the thing out of his jacket like it's a snake.

 

_ New Message from Mycroft _

 

"Oh my God."

Greg opens the message and reads, his heart jumping. 

By the time he's finished it, he's grinning from ear-to-ear. The urge to squirm in his chair is overwhelming. Only a glance through the glass wall of his office convinces him to rein it in. He gets his face under some kind of control, looks down at the message again, and rereads it with a warm, tickling joy.

_ Flirting,  _ he thinks.  _ Joking.  _ It's perfect. He couldn't have asked for better. A bloody question mark, too - according to Cosmo's website, a reply that then poses another question is an excellent reply to receive.  _ Oh God, in seven minutes.  _ Mycroft won't be making him wait an hour between responses, then. He's not playing the casually disinterested game.  _ That means I can reply now too. Christ. _

Greg drums his thumbs excitedly against the side of his phone, thinking. He suddenly understands why his nieces spend so much time attached to their phones, even if he hopes they're not flirting with politicians. 

_ No wonder people can't manage fifteen minutes before texting. _

Mulling over his options for texting back, he's startled when the phone buzzes in his hands. He looks down, and his heart performs a perfect forward roll as he spots a second text.

A text with a kiss.

_ Oh Jesus. _

_ Jesus, yes.  _

Greg drums happily against his phone for a while longer, contemplating his reply. He then types with a grin, hits ‘Send’, and gets up to go make himself a fresh coffee. 

 

[11:25]  _ Just clipping letters out of the paper for the ransom note ;) is it any good? G x _

 

*

 

Mycroft arches a brow as his phone flashes once more. At this rate he will be taking his lunch early, it’s not as though he’s getting much done when his mind is entirely elsewhere.

_ Is it any good.  _ He’s not entirely sure how to answer that in any space smaller than an academic dissertation.

_ It’s a childhood favorite _ he begins typing, though the sharp knock against his door makes him instantly flip his phone to the back and shift his eyes to his computer as though he’s a child been caught cheating on an exam.

Anthea clicks in, her heels particularly high and noticeable today- that red bottom look that seems to be cropping up in fashionable circles. He’s certain she’s wearing them only because that DGSE agent she likes is in town meeting with the French ambassador. Anthea has been an expert at keeping things discreet, and of course she’d never bring herself to actually  _ date _ a foreign intelligence agent, but Mycroft isn’t blind. 

Her expression is… mildly concerning. Not eager, not smug- smug was the last time she ran a check on a prospective date and he turned out to be some manner of arms dealer. 

“Yes?”

“I’ve been through Mr. Lestrade’s- everything. There’s a file for you to peruse if you like.”

“And?”

“He isn’t a security risk.”

He narrows his eyes. “And?”

“Do you want ‘and’? I can give you the entire file.”

It’s almost as though he can feel the weight of his phone, his idle chatting with Greg, increasing and pressing through his desk. He’s trying to be better at  _ normal _ , isn’t he? No analyzing, no always knowing more. 

“No, I accept your assessment.” 

Her brow lifts. “You like him.”

“He is… refreshing.”

“Mmm. Well, remind ‘refreshing’ that if he acts up I’ll break his legs.”

“I will do no such thing. Nor will you.”

“Hmph. Ready for lunch?”

“Might as well.”

She ducks out again, and Mycroft’s hand distractedly wanders right back to his phone.

 

[11:40]  _ It’s a childhood favorite. If you like fantasy or Arthurian legends you might enjoy it. MH _

 

_ * _

 

[11:44]  _ Have to ask my nieces if they've read it... they love things like that. G x _

[11:46]  _ They have good taste. MH _

[11:47]  _ I can recommend others, if they are looking. MH _

[11:50]  _ I might come asking in july. Eldests birthday. Brother will kill me if I get her more stuffed animals G x _

[11:56]  _ How old are they? MH _

[11:57]  _ have you not found that out yet? ;) G _

[12:09]  _ I’m not digging, Greg. I’d rather you tell me about you. MH x _

[12:11]  _ sorry, teasing :) 8 and 6. do you have family? G x _

[12:16]  _ Younger brother. MH _

[12:22]  _ Nieces/nephews etc? G  _

[12:24]  _ Extremely unlikely. MH _

[12:39]  _ can borrow mine if you ever want. should warn you they ask lots of questions. G _

[12:40]  _ such as "did people in the past get hayfever"? G _

[12:40]  _ and "why do we have 2 eyes if we only see 1 thing"? G _

[12:43]  _ They sound very intelligent. MH _

[12:44]  _ yeah, thats one word for it :) G _

[12:48]  _ If another is “exasperating” I would hazard a guess they are not entirely dissimilar from my brother. MH _

[12:48]  _ Do be on guard if either of them takes up a sudden interest in chemical processes. MH _

[12:55]  _ I get the feeling there's a story there :) what did he blow up? G _

[12:56]  _ Garden shed, two ovens, and a television. MH _

[12:57]  _ Oh christ I was joking??? G _

[12:58]  _ I want to meet your brother, he sounds like a laugh :) G _

[13:05]  _ I’m afraid he is not terribly social. MH _

[13:05]  _ Is your brother local? MH _

*

[15:21]  _ colchester. Sorry, work... stabbing in haggerston. Just a kid. G _

[15:55]  _ Sorry to hear that, Greg. Are you alright? MH x _

[16:12]  _ part of the job. Haggerston :|  _

[16:13]  _ hows your day gone? G _

[16:15]  _ Mundane. No crises. I may yet be able to go home at a reasonable hour. MH _

[16:16]  _ cross my fingers for you. Hows the jet lag? G _

[16:18]  _ Much improved, thank you. MH _

[16:19]  _ I do believe you were instrumental in ensuring I reset to the proper timezone, thank you for that. MH _

[16:27]  _ Its ok :) Glad if I helped. G x _

[16:30]  _ You helped significantly. MH x _

[16:32]  _ You haven’t yet told me the terms of ransom for my book. MH x _

[16:38]  _ Oh yeah. new to holding hostages. Forgot that bit. G x _

[16:39]  _ probably best if we meet to negotiate. complicated demands. Could take a while. G x _

[16:40]  _ will bring book along to prove it is alive and well. G x _

[16:45]  _ You should be aware negotiation is an area of particular expertise for me. MH x _

[16:47]  _ sure but... you will be used to dealing with smart liars. I'm an honest idiot. will throw you completely. G x _

[16:50]  _ Honest, yes, but not an idiot. I see quite a lot of lying idiots as well. Politics is mostly made of those with more volume in their lies than craft. MH x _

[16:52]  _ had my fair share of liars. Life is too short. G x _

[16:53]  _ So when do I get to see demonstration of expert negotiating? :) G x _

[16:55]  _ Do I recall correctly that you visit HRM Marmalade on Sundays? MH x _

[16:57]  _ Yep we do brunch :) well I do brunch and she sleeps. Room for one more on the couch. G x _

[16:58]  _ Let me know the time and I shall join you. MH x _

[16:58]  _ I shall be entering a meeting soon, in case you do not hear from me for a bit. MH x _

[16:59]  _ No worries. Driving soon anyway :) Brunch at 10? G x _

[16:59]  _ See you at 10. MH x _


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft passes Saturday at the Diogenes in comfortable silence, working on tasks that blessedly require him to talk to absolutely no one. More than once his gaze drifts to his phone, but he resists the urge to text Greg- they have a date scheduled, they’re going to see each other tomorrow, he needn’t act like a desperate teenager. 

By the evening, however, he finds himself full of restless energy. He paces his library, pausing to run a finger over the spot where the book is missing. The book, currently at Greg’s, probably being treated to all manner of day-in-the-life-of-Greg: television and a beer, boxers and a t-shirt. 

The thought does nothing to settle him. 

He puts on a film, but realizes halfway through that he isn’t really watching it, he’s just idly munching popcorn and wondering how Greg would look in Harrison Ford’s costume (answer: breathtaking).

There’s an obvious solution to this problem, but Mycroft has never felt terribly relaxed about using it. After his father had nearly caught him at it- and they knew what he was up to, plainly- Mummy gave him a talk where she remarked that while all his  _ urges _ were perfectly normal, it was a waste of time to devote any part of one’s day to it. Such things could easily be handled while one was in the shower, and there were far better ways to use the time this freed him- expanding his studies, for instance.

Retrospectively, she was probably attempting some sort of misguided angling for grandchildren as, oddly, she was also of the opinion that if one had a  _ partner _ any amount of time or indulgence was perfectly acceptable. 

Which is how Mycroft ended up being something of a discreet slattern from Year 11 all the way through University. 

Unfortunately, the idea that he shouldn’t waste time  _ taking care _ of himself stuck.

Yet. 

Greg told him so openly, with his sinful heating lubricant. 

Greg does it just to get to sleep.

_ Would he be doing it right now, perhaps? _

Mycroft wanders into his bedroom, slowly removing his clothes and hanging them up or placing them into the hamper as needed, very neat and organized. 

_ Just to settle my mind. Just to make sure I have it out of my system in the morning when I see him and don’t immediately try to drag him back here like some sort of satyr. _

Naked, he lays in bed, letting his mind wander back to  _ Greg, biting his lip, writing his name with his tongue-  _ he can feel himself hardening, and he reaches with a fumbling hand for the lube in his bedside drawer.

The next morning he opts for one of his more approachable suits- a pale grey- and sets out for his long walk to the cafe, brolly in hand despite the sunny weather. 

Mycroft arrives at 9:30 to find a new sign by the door.  _ Welcome to our new residents!  _ Pictures of a very photogenic tuxedo and a bright-eyed tortoiseshell have joined the others, with a reminder to donate for the care and upkeep of the cafe’s fluffy residents.

Acquiring crepes with berries and, for variety, a mocha, he settles on the couch. It takes almost a full five minutes for Marmalade to make an appearance, trotting over and announcing her presence with a loud mew before she leaps up beside him.

“Hello there, your ladyship. I’m afraid if you are looking for bacon, I haven’t any.” Mycroft strokes his hand tenderly over her. “Perhaps Greg shall indulge you in that.”

 

*

 

Marmalade - delighted for her customary Sunday adoration to have begun ahead of schedule - spends quite some time having her fill of fuss from Mycroft. She isn't as willing to flop down and sleep as usual. When stroking has finished, she butts his hand gently for more stroking, turns around on his lap and makes sure he has access to the other side of her. Whenever he drinks, she waits impatiently - often with a short  _ 'frrrrp' _ \- and only decides to settle after a dedicated fifteen minutes of petting. 

When she gets herself comfortable against Mycroft's chest, she doesn't sleep. She simply sits and watches. Her round green eyes take in the people, the room and every opening of the door, her ears flicking in response to the jingle of the bell - but what draws her eye quickest is the activity of the other cats. Usually a solitary creature, she's taking a much closer interest in her feline co-workers today. A certain tension fills her body when a small black cat appears, passing by on its way to the water bowl. She shuffles, relaxing against Mycroft once more, and returns to watching the door.

At five minutes to ten, a figure appears through the window who makes her sit up at once. She gives Mycroft a startled look, and trills with some insistence.  _ He's here. Make him sit here, too. _

As Greg lets himself into the café, his eyes move straight to the couch.

The smile that fills his face is one of instant relief. It widens into a grin as he spots Marmalade, too. 

He'd planned to go and get himself a drink first - play it cool, act like he hasn't spent an hour trying to decide which of his jeans are still sexy and which are clearly trying too hard - but he can't do it. 

He has to say hi first. 

The casual jacket is newly returned from exile, retrieved from a box that's been sitting in the wardrobe for months now. He almost gave it away to a charity shop.  _ ("When do I ever wear it, though? Trying to be cool at my age... Christ.")  _ Finding it this morning, he was spectacularly glad he hadn't. He's toned it down with an old band t-shirt, grey vans that his nieces assure him are 'lit', and a quick touch of the only cologne he owns. 

In his hand, he's carrying  _ Silver on the Tree. _

As he approaches, his gaze shines with unmissable happiness. 

"Hey..." he says, leans down, and scruffles Marmalade behind the ear. She meows with keen delight. He nods at Mycroft's empty cup; his eyes flash. "What'm I getting you? Another mocha, is it?"

 

*

 

“Hello, Greg,” Mycroft smiles as Marmalade climbs off him, fully expecting to be able to get her fill of Greg’s lap now too, and sits staring and flicking her tail because he hasn’t actually sat down yet.

His smile flickers with surprise and then warms even more- of course Greg wants to get him another, he doesn’t care that Mycroft can afford it himself, he’s chivalrous like that. “Yes, thank you. If you don’t mind.”

Mycroft’s eyes flit to the book in Greg’s hand and he playfully arches his brow. “Ah, so you have brought your hostage. I’m still very interested in hearing your terms.”

Near the counter, there’s a sudden crashing noise and a burst of laughter- the small black cat and an enormous tuxedo are playing chase with each other, and the big one has knocked a stack of books off the arm of another couch where a group of university students is quite amused by their disrupted efforts at studying. 

“Looks like the cafe is getting more popular,” Mycroft notes.

 

*

 

"S'alright," Greg says with another grin, sliding his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. "If it gets too rowdy, we'll bundle Marmalade into a bag and sneak out the back... you can have her one week, I'll have her the next. Sorted."

Marmalade churrs.

Greg tickles her under the chin with a hooked finger, rubbing her soft white fur. 

"I know princess," he soothes. "I know you wanna sit on me. But I need coffee first, don't I? You hang tight with Mycroft and scowl at me across the room. I won't be a minute." 

As he heads away to the counter, Marmalade gives Mycroft a round-eyed look of concern.  _ What did you say?  _

She doesn't settle until Greg returns, carrying a tray with two mochas and a bacon roll. 

"So," he says, as he unloads the tray, placing the first mocha in front of Mycroft and swivelling the handle towards him. "As you'll see, the hostage has been kept in excellent condition. I was tempted to rough it up a bit to show you I mean business, but I've decided I'm an honourable kidnapper."

 

*

 

“I know you won’t believe me, but he is not actually obligated to serve as your pillow  _ all _ the time,” Mycroft offers to Marmalade while Greg is up, attempting to appease her with a chin rub. 

It does not appear as though she believes him until Greg is on his way back to the couch.

Mycroft accepts the mocha with a smile, pulling it closer, and managing to hitch only slightly when the words  _ rough it up _ exit Greg’s lips.

“I see. No additional signs of wear and tear, no coffee cups resting on covers….”

He sips slowly, a mischievous grin lifting the edges of his lips. “I imagine you are looking for  _ generous _ terms of return for your excellent care.”

Long fingers pluck a berry off his plate, roll it once between his fingers, and pop it into his mouth.

 

*

 

Greg sucks his teeth. 

_ "Very  _ generous," he warns, settling on the sofa beside Mycroft. Before he can even lean forwards for his bacon roll, Marmalade tramples her way delicately onto his lap, twirling her tail beneath his nose as she goes. Greg blows the sudden sweep of fluff aside, tucks her against his chest and manages to stretch for his bacon roll. He lifts the plate onto one knee as he sits back. 

"But," he says, as Marmalade flops down, "like all good kidnappers, I've come along to find out how badly you want it back. See if I can edge my astronomical demands even higher."

Marmalade squirms, now gazing at Mycroft from the middle of Greg's chest, head cushioned over his heart.  _ Pet me. You know how this works. _

 

*

 

“I see.” Mycroft’s hand extends and fluffs Marmalade’s cheek. She burrows, trying to maximize her nestling position against Greg with Mycroft’s hand for maximum adorations of her person.

“Well, I was thinking of asking you to dinner, perhaps somewhere near my own home. As part of your terms, of course, and not because you were so generous with your own home.” He lets his petting hand stray slightly inward so his fingers graze Greg’s shirt, then runs it back over Marmalade’s head before he returns to eating his crepe.

“I have some further ideas, but one doesn’t like to give away all their bargaining chips too early.”

 

*

 

If Greg needed any additional clues that he's going to lose this negotiation game, he has them now - not that it feels like losing. Just seeing Mycroft was enough to propel his pulse and his mood into the stratosphere. Now they're going to dinner. 

_ Most successful date of my life, and I've only been here three minutes. Christ, yes. _

To think he worried this morning. He came mentally prepared for Mycroft not to show up; he came bracing himself to find it's awkward between them, strange, and he's coloured the whole thing in his mind into something it isn't. 

_ Dinner. Fuck.  _

Hiding his delighted grin as well as he can in a bacon roll, Greg takes a bite and chews for a while, pretending to think. 

"I do  _ enjoy  _ dinner," he says, as he tugs a small piece of bacon from his roll for Marmalade. "Obviously I'll need to check that by 'dinner', you mean somewhere nice, and you're not just going to stand me a burger and a milkshake at McDonalds..."

Marmalade wriggles to retrieve her piece of bacon from his sleeve, eating it with the small and happy scarfing motions of a cat enjoying something they shouldn't have.

_ Dinner in his part of town. Jesus, that means somewhere fancy... _

_ Means that maybe afterwards, we'll -  _

_ Bloody hell, Lestrade. Tuck it in. You literally just sat down. _

 

*

 

“I believe the severity of the situation may call for somewhere  _ posh. _ As someone I know keeps saying.”

Mycroft watches Marmalade nibble at the bit of bacon, drop it into Greg’s lap, bat it across his thigh and then onto the couch, where she drops down to eat it.

_ I told you, didn’t I? Greg would have the bacon, spoiled girl. _

It actually gives him pause for a second- had he been analyzing Greg without intending to? Predictive reasoning was something he did a great deal of, but he didn’t like to think of doing it to someone he was attempting to date, not without them knowing about it. 

He eats another berry, allowing himself another indulgent glance at the grin Greg is hiding behind a veneer of seriousness.

“Unless a burger and milkshake is your preferred-”

A bolt of black and white fur crashes suddenly into the space between them. Marmalade leaps back into Greg’s lap with an angry growl, claws extended, and there’s a flash of big yellow eyes and a bit of bacon on a pink tongue as the large tuxedo tom swipes the remainder of Marmalade’s prize.

Mycroft just barely manages to hang on to his mocha, sloshing only a bit onto the floor. “You, off,” he instructs the larger cat, switching seemlessly into his  _ I am in charge of things do as I say _ tone of voice, but he is roundly ignored.

 

*

 

_ Jesus! _

Greg has his arms around Marmalade before he's fully realised what's happening, scooping her up without a thought. The dig of her frightened claws into his bicep barely registers. As he holds her, and she whines with anger and distress, he thinks for a second that someone's dog has barged into the café and jumped up between them - but no, that thing actually  _ is  _ a cat.

"Christ," he manages, as it ignores Mycroft without a care. It flashes guiltily through his mind that if Mycroft addressed  _ him _ in that tone of voice, he wouldn't have disobeyed for all the tea in China. 

Marmalade, now fluffed up and upset, attempts a hiss from the safety of Greg's arms. It receives no more reaction than Mycroft got. 

"Right." This thing is a thug, Greg thinks; he can deal with thugs. The police officer voice will do the job. "Okay, mate. You're causing a disturbance now. Let's go."

And he attempts to nudge the cat on its way with his knee. 

 

*

 

The larger cat looks at Greg and makes a shrill, loud, mewing noise, like he never quite learned how to meow at a normal volume. He leaps up between them to the top of the couch and watches out the window, tail swishing, and yowls at passersby.

Marmalade tucks farther into Greg’s arms and hisses.

_ Well, if he doesn’t like to listen…. _

Mycroft hesitantly reaches out and grabs the cat under the shoulders. He’s heavy, it turns out, but also very floppy- he takes being relocated to the floor with ease and flops over on his side to bat at Mycroft’s shoelaces. Taking a second to peek at the cat’s collar, Mycroft notes that someone has called him “Wills.” 

Fortunately, the students at the far couch are dangling toys for the small black cat again, and Wills spots that across the room. He ducks low and prowls off to bother the other group. 

His eyes slide back to Marmalade and he extends a finger to her, asking if she’d like any more pets right now or if she is comfy where she is. “He’s gone, darling, it’s alright.”

A tiny smirk crosses his lip as he replays Greg’s voice in his head. “Were you going to  _ arrest _ the cat, Detective Inspector?” 

 

*

 

Greg's eyes flash.

"Stealing a police officer's bacon roll?" he murmurs. "Six months, if he's lucky. Add that to breach of the peace, and he can kiss goodbye to Christmas." 

He shifts nearer to Mycroft, bringing Marmalade between them in his arms. Their knees press. She makes a distressed noise, still fluffed and wide-eyed, and brushes Mycroft's fingertip with a small rasp of her tongue.

"S'alright, princess... we'll watch for him." Greg's heart tugs a little, wondering what she'll do for the rest of the week. Cats are cats, and the big lump saw bacon and wanted - Greg can't really blame him. There are days he'd happily knock someone down in the street and run off with their breakfast, if he wasn't an officer of the law. 

Marmalade's a shy thing, though. He's not sure how good she'll be at holding her own.

Rumpling her fur, slowly, he lets his voice soften into its lowest and gentlest tones. He murmurs to her as she quietens. For a few moments, the world gathers in close. It's just the three of them - him, Marmalade and Mycroft - and it's like it's always been that way.

"There's a good girl. All fine, now... no worries now. We'll wait until he's busy, mm? You can have a bigger piece from my hand... a better piece. Best piece I can find." 

Marmalade starts to purr - faint, nervous, a secret for them alone to hear.

Greg's heart tightens. Part of him wants to lean closer, ease away those last few inches, and rest against Mycroft's shoulder with her.  _ Downside of being two men,  _ he thinks.  _ Only ever one public hug and a bigot away from a scene. _

"Just sad he's got no-one to fuss him like you have, princess," he whispers, stroking his thumb across her pretty forehead. "Jealous of your Greg and your Mycroft."

 

*

 

_ He’s so gentle with her.  _  Mycroft finds that he’s watching more of Greg than Marmalade, his comfortable nature coaxing a purr from her.

_ ‘Your Greg and your Mycroft.’ _

There’s a little strain at the back of his throat.

Despite all his years of dating, so much of it has been casual- he’s never gotten to an  _ our.  _ No shared flats or bills. Or pets.

Marmalade, in this bubble of couch and warm touch and the scent of coffee, feels like an  _ our. _

Mycroft swallows, hoping the raw feeling won’t be evident in his voice. “You just stay right here with us, love.” His hand cards through her fluff, brushing past Greg’s as well, fingers lingering against his. “Have all the fuss you like, or if you nap we’ll keep an eye out for him and Greg will have him put in cat jail if he bothers you.”

He tugs his plate closer. “Berries, oh brave inspector? Since you’ve had part of your own meal shamelessly thieved?”

 

*

 

_ Cat jail.  _

_ Fuck me up. _

As he glances up at Mycroft, wondering how this is both the best and the oddest date he's had in his life, and they've now been here maybe ten minutes in total, Greg can't fight a smile.

_ Those weird moments you share.  _ They're the best, he thinks, looking back. The big serious moments always feel like there's an audience and a scoreboard somewhere, and there's a series of targets you should be hitting. It's the daft moments like comforting a cat together that you'll return to when you want to smile.

Bright-eyed, still holding Marmalade in one hand and rubbing her head with the other, he drops his gaze to the portion of crepes. He's not usually a fruity breakfast man, but he has to admit they look magnificent.

"Sure," he says, with a little grin. "If you're offering. This doesn't then count as dinner, does it?"

He wonders if he'll have to stop rubbing Marmalade to take one, or if this really is a good date.

 

*

 

“It does not count as dinner, no.” 

Mycroft has  _ plans _ for that dinner, and an excellent home cinema he would like to make use of afterwards. A proper date, considering they mostly skipped the “proper” section the first time.

_ Ah, no free hands? How tragic. _

If they were somewhere else- somewhere more private- he might have plucked them up and and fed them to Greg by hand. 

But seeing as they are not, and the sweet, lovely man beside him is occupied with ensuring their small fluffy majesty’s well-being, he’ll try to be a bit more civil about it. 

He rolls up a triangle of crepe with the berries curled inside and spears it on his fork, then holds it out toward Greg.

 

*

 

Greg leans forwards, smiling, and neatly pulls the triangle from the fork. 

"Thank you," he says, begins to chew, and immediately has to restrain his expression a little. "Christ, they're nice... I've not had proper berries in years..."

Finishing his mouthful, he licks his lips and begins to tickle under Marmalade's chin. She leans back quite happily to let him, her eyes closing, relaxing again in their care.

"Used to go picking wild ones in the fields with my brother," Greg says, with a small smile. "Back when we were kids... he used to dive for all the biggest ones first. Never believed me that the smaller ones are sweeter."

 

*

 

“That sounds enjoyable… I tend to prefer the largest ones, myself.”

Mycroft thinks, spinning another carved-off and rolled bit of crepe on his fork. “We had quite a few bushes near the house when I was younger, but exploring them usually became a game of ‘try to remember which is poisonous.’ First because my brother would try to eat them, and then because he’d try to convince me to eat them.”

Oddly, this is a fond memory- but they never did have anything resembling a usual childhood. 

“Did you grow up outside the city, then? Close to the fields?”

 

*

 

"Sort of," Greg says, amused, trying to imagine this younger Mycroft walking the world somewhere. He wondered if he was as posh as his older brother. "Outskirts of Colchester... not exactly glorious rolling hills, but it was greener back then. Brother's still over there. Used to be in teaching, but he's left to retrain. Can't bear it anymore."

Glancing down, and finding Marmalade settling to sleep, he gingerly reaches for his coffee. He hooks a finger around the handle with care and lifts it to his mouth.

It's nice just to sit and talk, he realises. He's burning with questions about Mycroft, but doesn't know which of them he's really allowed to ask. Mycroft's profession is clearly out of bounds. He imagines something like that will spill over into the rest of someone's life.

The brother seems to be fair game, though.

"What does your brother do?" he asks, curious, sipping his coffee. "Is he in London?"

 

*

 

“Mmmm.” 

_ That’s a complicated question. _

Mycroft places another bit of crepe in his mouth to save himself from saying  _ a copious and diverse array of drugs, primarily, _ because although he’s certain Greg would be generously understanding, he does not exactly want Sherlock’s habit to be known in police circles. Greg might try to help- and much as Mycroft would like that, Sherlock distrusts him enough as it is.

“He’s interested in chemical research- experimentation and such. Consulting with laboratories.” 

_ Consulting _ may be too strong a term- more like foisting himself on them and riding the power of his genius until his personality becomes unbearable and they turn him out. Mycroft tries to throw him points of interest when he can, interesting tidbits outside the scope of the security services, but Sherlock tends to scoff at the “scraps” he offers. He’d offer a job if he thought Sherlock would take it, but they both know he doesn’t have the temperment. 

He sips his mocha, resting his hand against Marmalade’s back to take some solace in her gentle, sleepy warmth. He hasn’t been meeting Greg’s eye when he talks about Sherlock. There’s too much of a subconscious urge to look away, in case any weakness regarding his brother shows on his face. The distance between them has always been helpful. No one he deals with for work assumes they’re close enough for Sherlock to serve as leverage, if they even know he has a brother at all. 

“Usually in London. But we don’t often socialize. Too far apart in age, probably- I tend to think he’s not as settled as he should be, I’m sure he feels I am too interfering with his independence.”

He sips again, clears his throat, and looks back to Greg. “What is your brother retraining for?”

 

*

 

That  _ 'mmmm'  _ is a complicated noise. 

And it's followed by a complicated answer -  _ interested  _ in chemical research, but not  _ in  _ it; consulting with laboratories, on unspecified things. 

Greg makes the natural connection that the brother, too, is part of... whichever government organisation Mycroft belongs to.  _ MI5? MI6? _ He can't remember the difference. Chemical research sounds like it might even be military.  _ Christ.  _ He didn't know that line of work runs in families, but he supposes it makes sense if it does. He's heard it all happens through personal recommendation - a hand on the shoulder at Cambridge - and spending your life like that has got to be isolating.

An unsettling flicker passes through the back of Greg's chest, as he wonders for the first time if he's running a little too eagerly into the dark here. 

Mycroft's not meeting his eyes - it looks as if the brother's a dangerous topic of conversation, too. 

That doesn't leave much. 

At the question, a quiet smile crinkles Greg's eyes.

"Plumber," he admits. It feels somehow like a tragic answer.  _ Your brother's in chemical weapons for the military. Mine's going to fix people's toilets.  _ "There's - good money in it... doesn't have to work with kids anymore. No shortage of jobs..."

His voice fades out. 

He looks down at Marmalade for a moment, watching Mycroft's fingers pass over her fur.

"Sister-in-law's still in teaching."  _ Why the hell am I telling you this? My boring bloody life.  _ "How big an age-gap...?"

_ If you can say. _

 

*

 

“Plumbing is a smart decision. Stable, consistent.” A bit of Greg’s enthusiasm has dipped- Mycroft has the feeling it’s his fault, somehow, and he must  _ fix it _ . “I know how much I paid to have my bath redone, so I’m sure he’ll be able to get a summer cottage or anything else he likes in no time.”

_ Christ, Mycroft, this isn’t small talk with a minister you don’t like. Do better. _

“Seven year gap. Feels like more, sometimes.” He smiles, trying to make a jest of it. “I’ve always suspected I was a bit of a surprise and they had more time to plan for Sherlock, but honestly they always seemed a bit befuddled that they had children at all, like we’d sprouted directly from the earth and it was somehow expected that we would proceed directly to adulthood. Which we did, more or less.”

Not that either of them had been cut out for traditional childhoods, not really. Getting along with other children had not been a strong suit. 

“The house is out near the Lake District, but my parents have another closer to London for when they feel like imposing on one of us.”

It might be too much- pointing out the houses, the inherent difference in class- but Mycroft wants Greg to know, wants it to be clear he knows and isn’t bothered by it. He doesn’t want Greg to be  _ posh. _ He’s interested in Greg as... Greg. Just Greg.

_ I just have to hope he feels the same.  _

 

*

 

Greg smiles as he rumples the top of Marmalade's head, quietly amused.  _ Spare house near London.  _ 'Sherlock' is a hell of a name, too - Mycroft and Sherlock. He can already imagine Mycroft's parents: a very slender mother with pearls, who naturally defers to her husband in all things; a father who doesn't expect to be disturbed by something as trivial as his children.

Shifting a little, careful not to disturb Marmalade, he eases a hand into the back pocket of his jeans. He slides his phone out. A slight skip crosses his face at the sight of a missed call, but he deletes it with a swipe of his thumb before unlocking the phone, loading up his photos and scrolling through.

"I was a surprise, too," he says. "Bit less of an age-gap..."

At last, he finds the photograph he wants - Sophie's birthday, two summers ago ago. In the beer garden of a pub, a group of suntanned adults sit around a wooden table, heavily-laden with empty pint glasses. A bouncy castle in the background of the shot is under siege by leaping barefooted children.

Greg offers the phone out for Mycroft to see.

He likes this photo. 

He likes seeing people's faces as they realise it contains not one, but two, Greg Lestrades. 

The clothes are different: one in a white shirt and jeans, the other in long beach shorts and a polo-shirt. They sit either side of the table, grinning an almost mirrored grin, even drinking the same type of cider. The other people in the photo are oblivious. 

"You'd better know which one I am," Greg remarks, his eyes glittering as he waits.

 

*

 

Mycroft is very rarely surprised, but he’s pleased that this is one such occasion. 

“A  _ bit _ less, hm?” he chuckles.

He looks over the photo, studying the two reflections of a single face. “Jeans,” he states eventually. “You don’t seem like you would wear beach shorts if the beach was not actually involved. And your smile is a bit different.”

_ There. I didn’t even have to analyze. Good.  _ He still doesn’t want to dig in too deep by accident, end up discussing something he hasn’t been told. It’s the sort of thing that resulted in being called a stalker or a freak when he was younger, before he learned to turn it off.

It’s a pity he doesn’t have any family photos on his own phone. Or any photos at all, really. Security risks make carrying around obvious signs of one’s pressure points a bad idea, despite the heavily secured encryption he employs.

“My family is a bit less of a phone snap contingent… but I have photos at home, if you want to have a look after our dinner.” 

Not that he really  _ needs _ an ulterior motive for getting Greg in his house, but it does feel nicer to have one. Less slatternly, anyway. 

 

*

 

Greg grins widely as Mycroft gets it right. He knows it shouldn't matter - he knows he shouldn't care. He and Andy share the same damn DNA, after all, and even Andy's wife has made a few well-meaning mistakes at familiar gatherings. Greg's learned to find it funny; he tries not to take it personally.

All the same, it's nice. That little fantasy. As if he carries some special mark, and his Mycroft could spot it anywhere.

_ Jesus Christ... 'my' Mycroft? _

_ Second cup of coffee we've ever shared, and I'm already getting cosy. _

"We're ten minutes apart," he says, and swipes his thumb through a few more photos for Mycroft to see. "I'm younger, if it matters..." As the pictures go by, some of the subtle differences between the two become more obvious. His twin tends to sit back, legs spread, cider bottle in hand, and he has a slightly more pointed grin. It's almost wolfish - especially when the two of them are in shot together. Greg is more aware of the camera. He turns to face it each time, his eyes bright, while his brother pretends not to have noticed. 

Smiling slightly, Greg glances up at Mycroft from the phone.

"Am I allowed in your home?" he teases. "Bet there's paperwork to fill out first, isn't there?" 

His eyes shine.

"When're we going to dinner?"

 

*

 

“Oh yes, you’ll need a very thorough screening. Top Secret clearance is a requirement.” He’s only half-kidding: there really is a list of approved visitors and staff, and if Anthea or her minions spy anyone arriving not on it, the response is often… disproportionate. It was likely, given what she observed during her unexpected arrival, that she had added Greg already, but Mycroft ought to make sure to avoid Anthea’s more aggressively protective side.

“Are you always off on Sundays? Saturday night, perhaps, in case things run… late.” 

_ All night would be the intention.  _

“Or else Friday- most of my colleagues do try for a normal work week as they can, so there is less chance of intrusion.”

Mondays tended to be the worst on the political front- constituents who made their opinions known over the weekend would be the most felt on Monday morning while assistant went through buckets of new emails. 

On the security front, of course, he could be called in at any time, for any crisis. A great deal of his job was spent attempting to predict such events, however, so he stood a good chance of knowing if anything was going to interfere in advance.

“I was thinking of a French establishment, but there is also a very good Italian if you have a preference for your ransom payment.”

 

*

 

"Unless there's some mad emergency, yep... Sundays are a safe bet for me."

The thought of running late squeezes Greg's stomach slightly - especially if there's a day off for them to follow it. He owes Mycroft a morning-after breakfast. Without jet lag to contend with, they could have a rather cosy Sunday together. 

It's almost a shame they'll have to wait a week.

Then again, he thinks, looking down at Marmalade with a smile, there's always texts - and there's no reason to rush this. It'll be nice having something to look forward to. 

_ Might buy a new shirt. Scrub up. Make an effort... 'specially if we're going somewhere French. _

"Think I trust you to choose," he says, bites the corner of his lip, and regards Mycroft with some warmth. "So long as we can share a glass of wine, and I can have you to myself for a while, I don't mind..."

He realises his heart's beating a little quicker, just at the thought. Some part of him still wonders if he should have more sense. There's so much he doesn't know - and so much Mycroft doesn't know. He feels like he's twenty-one again, wanting just to lie in bed all weekend and share every inch of his skin.

It feels good. 

It's getting harder to remember all the times he didn't feel that good.

 

*

 

_ “Have you to myself for a while.” Quite.  _

_ No- stop it, you made a specific point to try not to be overly lewd, Mycroft, not in the middle of a cafe surrounded by nice cats. _

He smiles back at Greg and glances down- Marmalade is drowsing with her mouth slightly open, precious little pink tongue stuck just a bit out, sprawled across them both. 

If Mycroft took phone pictures, this would be one, but he settles for carding into her fur just enough to get a little trill of disgruntled sleepy cat noise. He grins fondly from Marmalade to Greg, eyes soft.

“It’s a fairly private establishment. Part of the reason I enjoy going there.”

The table in the back corner will be perfect. People-watching and privacy, quiet enough to hear each other easily. 

“Excellent desserts as well. Though I maintain a fondness for the cake here….” 

His eye catches a bit of movement near the floor. Wills is stalking around a nearby table, sniffing, enormous fluffy tail standing up like a flag. “Best guard your remaining bacon, Greg, our ne’er-do-well is coming this way.”

 

*

 

_ That grin.  _

_ Christ, how many people get to see you grin? _

A private establishment sounds pretty perfect. Greg hasn't been out to dinner in years. He's realising he's going to think of little else all this week - eyes on the prize, Saturday night with Mycroft. 

Sunday morning with Mycroft, too.

Rubbing his thumb gently over Marmalade's ear, he hopes there might even be brunch with their young lady to follow. It wouldn't seem right somehow, not seeing her. Ideally they'd just fetch her along to the posh French restaurant.  _ Christ.  _ Get a high-chair for her and feed her small bits of tiny gourmet food. 

_ I had a normal life once. _

_ Thank God I jacked it in. _

As the warning is given, Greg glances around and finds the big guy sneaking his way back for round two. 

"Back to increase your sentence, are you?" he says, raising an eyebrow. He shifts closer to Mycroft, gently transferring Marmalade to the other man's arms. She squirms a little, affronted at the shuffling, but recognises Mycroft with a soft 'brrrrp'. She cuddles against him happily, stretching her small pink toes.

Greg, meanwhile, attends to his bacon roll.

He knows it's probably provocative to eat it while staring Big Wills dead in the eye, but he's never liked bullies. 

"Cake after this, d'you reckon?" he says to Mycroft, with a fond glance. "Stay a bit longer?" 

His eyes are bright.

"I don't have anywhere to be."


	10. Chapter 10

The cake was delicious, as expected. Mycroft is glad he stayed later than intended, as the rest of the week is rapidly proving to be something of a nightmare.

It’s terrorism, of course- lately, it’s seems to be either terrorism or political wanking or sometimes, if the universe is feeling particularly hateful, both at the same time. Threats and chatter and tracing who left what weapons laying about in the Middle East for just anyone to pick up.

And Mycroft is needed, because he is always needed, because he can sit in a room and put all the pieces together- or he would, if they would let him out of the political wanking meetings _about_ the matter long enough to let him actually _deal_ with it.

Normally he doesn’t have anyone to speak with about it. Anthea knows, of course- she goes with him, most of the time, when he has to switch to the bunker that they use for this sort of thing. He certainly doesn’t let his parents know he’s going to be out of touch- there’d be no point, he rarely calls anyway. Sherlock doesn’t care.

But he thinks Greg would care, if he were to try and get in touch and find that Mycroft hasn’t written him back for several days. Greg might even be a bit sad about it.

And Mycroft has been greatly enjoying their chats- especially the brief ones, late in the evening- he’s told Greg he watches movies at night sometimes, so there’s a bit of _what’s the pick tonight_ and he talks film, or he has Greg tell him what’s been on the telly, what’s happening in worlds of sport he doesn’t have time to follow.

It’s nice, having someone to simply talk to.

So he feels a bit badly when he texts Greg to let him know.

[14:46] _Greg, I wanted to let you know I’ll need to be in a location without outside communication for the next day or two. Possibly three. I do not anticipate any issues making our reservation for Saturday. MH._

There better not be any issues getting him free by Saturday, or Mycroft is going to find someone to terrorize himself.

 

*

 

[14:51] _yikes... I wont ask. Hope all goes well._

It doesn't seem like enough.

Greg hesitates, rubbing his thumb along the side of his phone. He doesn't know what to add. There's something missing there - something it needs.

It's too early to express worry, no matter if he's feeling it. It's too early to say _'I'll miss you'_ \- after all, what is there to miss? Sitting on his couch at night, paperwork and the telly brightened by the soft flash of his phone. He doesn't quite know how to put that into words. It's early, and he takes it as a comfort that Mycroft has still taken the time to tell him.

A quiet smile moves over Greg's mouth - just a ghost of an expression. He's leaning against his car outside court, full suit and tie, and it's a rainy day.

It's nice to know that Mycroft wants to spare him worry.

He absolutely would have worried. He knows it without a doubt, to the point that it's almost funny imagining what he'd have been thinking after three days, sending hopeful texts into the abyss. He's got the restaurant details for Saturday, and he knows when they'll be meeting. Everything's still on schedule.

It's comforting to see it in writing that Mycroft considers it important.

Greg draws a breath, his smile widening as he realises what it needs.

[14:51] _yikes... I won't ask. Hope all goes well. really looking forward to saturday. Ok so things to think about while you're gone:_

[14:51] _One... if you had to be any animal for a week which one (and why?)_

[14:52] _Two... one thing you definitely want to do before you're 80?_

[14:52] _Three... pick a favourite: outdoor sex, food sex, handcuffs sex?_

[14:53] _I want your answers at dinner ;) ttyl. G xx_

 

*

 

Mycroft checks his phone one last time while the car is pulling up to the bunker- a very well hidden bunker, mind, masked as a lovely, nondescript office building- but it’s still a bunker and he’ll be in the secure area in the basement for the duration.

He looks over Greg’s texts, a smile twitching at the edge of his lip.

Something else entirely twitches when he reaches the third text. He hesitates in getting out of the car so he can respond.

[14:57] _I note that one of these queries is less suited to a dinner discussion than the others… consider your efforts at distraction preemptively successful. MH x_

[14:57] _I trust you are planning to give your own answers as well? MH x_

[14:58] _I shall let you know when I am free once more. MH x_

“Oh, no, you aren’t sexting?” Anthea looks dramatically faux-horrified, holding open the car door.

“I am not.”

“Looks a bit like you are.”

He arches a brow at her as they march inside. _Slight rip in stocking, faint scent of red wine, citrus shower products- hotel line, and a dash of Annick Goutal._  “And how is Juliette?”

She pinkens instantly. “The delegation departed this morning.”

“Mmmmhm. And you are running on… looks like four hours sleep, because….?”

“Fine, fine, I won’t tease you about your boyfriend.”

Mycroft manages to stop himself from saying _He isn’t my boyfriend._ They are just dating- doing it a little backwards, really, but one accidental meeting followed by excellent sex and one real date. Soon to be a second official date.

Except there isn’t really a _just_ about it, is there? They hadn’t had any formal discussions about… anything like that, but at his age isn’t _one_ date serious enough to merit it? Or is it the other way around now, and no one puts labels on things anymore because after a certain point you should take what you can get?

_Not an area in which I would trust my own advice._

But having a boyfriend, a traditional sort of boyfriend, might be nice. Someone to go home with. Someone who worries when the government has to lock you in a room for several days.

It is something to consider later. He looks up as they get into what he calls his war room, the wall covered in pictures and printouts, maps and data, emails and satellite paths. He paces in front of it, blanking his mind of everything else as Anthea directs his little band of analyst and research troops into their seats. “Alright. Run me through it.”

 

*

 

Day one is easy. It helps that things kick off at work, and Greg's driving around London like a madman until eight o'clock at night. By the time he gets things logged and gets home, it's gone nine. He digs one of his Tragic Divorced Bastard Meals For One out of the freezer, and eats it standing in the kitchen. The packaging claims it's a lasagne. Greg's not sure if there was a mix-up at the factory, and this _is_ in fact a shepherd's pie, or if it really is that crap.

In the end, he bins half of it. He spends an hour filling up on crisps and Penguin biscuits, watches the last twenty minutes of _Planet of the Sharks,_ then hits the shower.

Naked, towel-dry, he finally gets himself into bed.

In the quiet dark, he makes one last check.

The glare of his phone-screen makes him wince, but the sight of a new message tosses his heart into his throat. He's opened it with a flick of his thumb before his eyes have registered the sender.

[22:01] _and the reason your avoiding me.......?_ :|

It takes Greg a few seconds to realise what Mycroft's talking about - by realising it isn't Mycroft. His heart sinks as he watches his phone register delivered and seen, two neat blue ticks with a time-stamp.

_Christ._

_I'll get trouble if I don't. She'll find a way._

Staring at the message, a strange bravery arises in his chest.

_No._

_Fuck it. What can she do?_

_Fucking divorced. Over a year now._

His heart's thumping hard as he deletes the message. It feels as serious and decisive as if he'd shoved her off a bridge. _Fuck it. I'm going for dinner on Saturday. I'm done. Not living in the scraps you left me anymore._

_I'm off to a restaurant with a posh boy who moans my name as he comes._

_And I'm going to make him come again. As many times as he wants. For as long as he wants._

Mycroft didn't even know Karen existed. She might as well not. She turned their marriage into a joke - then when Greg left, she made his life the joke. He's going to rebuild it. She can move on now. He said it, _I don't want this anymore,_ and he meant it.

He checks his alarm, plugs his phone into charge, and buries himself deep beneath the covers.

Warm, breathing slow, he reaches out for the bedside drawer.

Day two is quieter at work. It's a paperwork day, and Greg would normally take the chance to text Mycroft a few times - small things, _how's your day? How many times have you signed your name this afternoon? Bet I've done it more._ All he ends up doing is checking his empty lock-screen on a fairly regular basis.

"You alright?" Sally asks, frowning a little, as she hands him a crumpled paper bag from the nearest bakery and a coffee.

"Mm? Yeah, fine. Why?"

"Been checking your phone a lot. Waiting for something?"

Greg smiles. "Andy," he says. "Applied for some courses. Waiting to hear if he got the one he wanted."

He's not sure if she buys it or not - but he trusts his sergeant is smart enough to know that if he's lying, there's a reason for it. They don't talk about personal that often. Sally's always kept a clean division herself between work and home. She guarded him as fiercely as a pitbull while the divorce was shaking his life apart, but she never asked for a single detail. They keep their focus on the job; it's Scotland Yard, not a support group.

He leaves at six, stops for groceries on the way back, and makes himself an actual lasagne at home. Mary Berry puts redcurrant jelly in hers along with the tomato puree, and Greg can't make it without it now. The woman is a legend.

_Cook for you one day,_ he thinks, imagining Mycroft here - sitting on the couch as he works on something. Nice wine, dessert chilling in the fridge. Watch half a film then go to bed, fuck slowly, kissing and edging and taking their time.

Greg's realised that, when he imagines them fucking - which he possibly does more often than he should - he's not even sure who's inside who. He can just feel them moving together, see Mycroft's face tight with enjoyment, hear him moaning. It doesn't matter where the pleasure is. It just matters that Mycroft's skin can be his for a little while.

Watching telly, he keeps checking his phone. Eventually, just past ten, he switches it to silent and plugs it into charge.

_Might be back tomorrow._

_Might not,_ he warns himself sternly. Mycroft said two or three days. Greg might only hear from him on Saturday - they might even just meet at the restaurant as planned. He can't spend tomorrow twitching, mistaking every shift of his clothing for the vibration of a text.

Bored with the telly, boring on his own, Greg showers and gets to bed by ten.

His thoughts are of Mycroft - here, on top of him, moving so slowly that it aches, drinking Greg's whimpers from his mouth. Close to coming, Greg nervously adds a little lube to his fingers and slides them down, between his thighs, just rubbing until he needs the feeling of _inside._ He comes before he's even relaxed properly around two - groaning, panting, spattering hot across his own belly as he imagines Mycroft's mouth at his neck, Mycroft's fingers breaching him with care.

A shy clean-up in the bathroom, a last check of his phone, and Greg heads off to sleep.

Day three - Friday - and it's about time he checked in on Marmalade.

He drops in before work, orders a coffee and a bacon roll to go, and has a fuss of her while he's waiting. She's a chirpy thing today, clearly believing that he's going to stay and be cuddled for at least an hour. There's no sign of her new pal with the ego. The thing must now be so fat with stolen bacon that it's wedged in a cat tree somewhere.

"Guess where I'm going tomorrow, mm?" As he scruffles Marmalade behind the ear, Greg realises he's grinning. "Just guess."

Marmalade says she doesn't know.

"M'going for dinner with your posh boy, princess. Somewhere French."

Marmalade trills.

"I _know,"_ Greg says. "I'm as shocked as you are. We might come see you for brunch on Sunday. Don't expect us early, missus. I'm told we might 'run late'."

Marmalade's staring at the white paper bag in his hand. Greg grins, undoes the top, and finds her a choice piece of bacon from inside his roll. He stays by the counter with her until she's polished it off, watching for the approach of her tuxedo-clad rival, then gives her a quick kiss to the forehead and puts her on a cushion. He hurries out of the door and hits the road.

Work is good. A couple of minor incidents keep Greg from slumping into a paperwork-based stupor, but he's not so rushed off his feet that it stops feeling like a Friday. He forces himself to keep his phone in his coat pocket, which means he has to get up off his chair to check it.

There's nothing by lunch - then nothing by three.

_It's fine,_ he tells himself cheerfully, fishes a pound from his pocket and heads to the vending machine for a Crunchie bar. _He said it could be three days. He'll be there tomorrow._

Nothing comes through by six - which is also fine. Greg sees everybody off for the weekend, checks cover for Saturday and Sunday is sorted, then gets in his car and drives home.

The radio seems to have good music lately. Greg's never seen it as more than background noise before, but there are some half-decent songs around. He knows a couple of them enough to mumble along now. They feel like the sound of the times, and it makes him smile to himself at stoplights.

_Going for dinner tomorrow._

He's already dug through his wardrobe for something suitable. He imagines Mycroft's going to put him to shame, whatever he wears, but it'll be nice to make an effort.

At home, he finishes off the rest of yesterday's lasagne and gets himself settled in bed with the laptop. It feels like a Netflix night.

He keeps an eye on his phone as the hours pass by. Eight o'clock comes with no messages, then nine.

Then - a handful of minutes later - there comes a knock on the door of his flat.

Greg's breath catches in his chest. He pauses his show, listening to see if he was hearing things.

There comes another knock.

_No way. Have you...?_

Three days.

Looks like Mycroft can't wait for tomorrow either. Smiling, easing out of bed in his t-shirt and boxers, Greg pads across to the door and unhooks the chain.

"Thought we said 'Saturday', didn't we?" he says through the door, amused, as he slides back the bolt. "If you'd been here earlier, you could've had lasagne. I hope you've got a bottle in your hand."

Grinning, he pulls the door open.

By the time he gets her to leave, it's gone ten.

Returning to bed, numb, Greg finds his show where he paused it. His bag of half-eaten crisps is still open beside his laptop.

It feels like they belong to someone else - someone who was here weeks ago.

He moves them quietly to the top of his chest of drawers. He doesn't want to shower. He definitely doesn't want to reach for the drawer. He just wants to sleep and forget.

He can still see her face.

_'Well, who did you think I was?'_

_'Why would your brother be visiting you this time of night?'_

_'Because everyone has been ringing me, asking if you're having some kind of breakdown. That's why. Because Lucy said you looked like you were falling apart, and she was right. You're clearly not taking care of yourself. It's embarrassing. And I do actually care about you.'_

Quiet in the dark, with the covers pulled around his throat, Greg's eyes fall on his mobile phone.

He almost doesn't dare to hope.

He reaches out, even as he tells himself not to. He knows what he's going to see. He knows it'll make things worse. He should just go to bed and forget about it, waiting for tomorrow, get to the restaurant, and Mycroft will be there. He doesn't need the sight of _No New Messages._ Not now.

He picks up his phone.

He breathes in, and presses the home button to wake it.

 

*

 

Both Anthea and Mycroft look a bit bedraggled by the time the reports come in that the cell has been broken up, arrested, carted off to the appropriate places where they no longer fall under Mycroft’s purview. By comparison, one of the analysts is asleep curled up in the corner, two have become so jittery and wired on caffeine and sleep deprivation that they require medical attention, and another is simply crying softly in the foyer- he won’t be invited back, this sort of high-stress situation isn’t suitable for everyone, not even those trained by MI-6.

He clicks his phone on as they stumble into the car. The little red bar in the corner is blinking at him.

_Should have charged more before I left._

“Take tomorrow off,” he sleepily grunts at Anthea.

“Only if you are, sir.” She sounds worn. Even her carefully coiffed hair is starting to unravel.

“Full weekend. The country will have to figure itself out for two days.”

“Excellent plan, sir.”

He stares at his phone. What he’d like to do is quietly text Greg for a bit from bed… but he likely needs sleep more, and his charge isn’t going to last. And they are meeting tomorrow- they can talk all night.

_Well. Perhaps not just talk._

He smiles to himself.

[21:47] _Have been released from purgatory. In desperate need of both phone charger and bed. I hope your week has gone well. MH x_

[21:48] _I am very much looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. MH x_

He sleeps until nearly eight, which is almost unheard of. Takes a long shower, orders the delivery of some groceries to restock his otherwise fairly spartan fridge.

The rest of the day is spent in restless puttering, tidying things that are already tidy and wondering if there’s anything he can do to ensure Greg _likes_ it.

He glances several times over a span of wall that contain a well-blended door to rooms he doesn’t typically allow guests to peruse- even Anthea is not meant to enter unless there’s an emergency, and persons he’s had over for reasons of state or business rarely notice its existence, too contented by the outer trappings of the upperclass he keeps mostly because it’s expected. Those aren’t the rooms he lives in, not really.

The door might be left open, of course… Greg probably wouldn’t be rude or judgemental. But- no, he ought to leave it, just in case. It’s something he can sound out later.

The cinema room gets the most attention- fluffy blanket on the couch, popcorn maker prepared, and he shoves the armchair he normally sits in over so the couch has the better vantage. He has no idea if Greg will want to watch something, but it is his contingency plan for asking Greg in. Though he thinks he stands a good chance of Greg coming in anyway.

He selects a navy suit for the evening, one that Anthea has said makes him look more approachable, and walks to _Les Nomades_ at fifteen to seven, brolly in hand. If he’s very lucky, he might even stop feeling nervous by the time he gets there.

 

*

 

Greg hasn't been able to settle all day. He slept fine - much better than he'd hoped he would - but the truth is that today's just a preface. It's the last stretch of waiting before... him.

The word barely leaves his mind all day.

_Him,_ tidying the flat to stay busy. The place is gleaming by noon.

_Him,_ resisting the urge to text every five minutes.

_Him,_ as it gets to five, and it's too early to shower - but Greg can't do anything else. Nothing's going to move the time nearer to seven, except getting ready. He needs it to be now.

He just wants to be with Mycroft.

_Third date,_ he thinks, smiling warily at himself in the mirror as he shaves, towel wrapped around his hips and teeth already brushed. _Sort of third date. And already I'm..._

_Yeah._

_I'm._

It makes Greg close his eyes for a moment with the force of it. _I really like this guy._ Three dates, and he's regressed three decades. _I want this to be something. I want this guy. God, please, I want this guy._ It's terrifying to realise it, but what other option is there now? Two texts from Mycroft can undo an hour of Karen asking if Greg's thought about professional help. The prospect of seeing him wipes her clean from Greg's mind like she was never there. It pulls his thoughts forward and makes them bright, and Greg's spent a year with his thoughts grey and looking back - it's not a small thing.

None of this feels like a small thing.

_Christ, posh boy... are you thinking about me?_

Dressing beside his bed, carefully folding down the collar of his midnight-blue shirt, Greg's heart aches. He can't stop looking at his bed-covers. _We were here together. I'll be with you tonight, where you are._

He can't stop thinking about it.

_Together with you. All night. Wake up together in the morning._

_Oh God, I want..._

He has to keep reminding himself it's okay. It's alright to admit he wants sex. He wants to go home with Mycroft, go to bed with him, feel again that pale and perfect skin beneath his hands - no jet-lag this time; no work in the morning.

Just Mycroft, a restaurant table for two, then a comfortable bed and the whole night ahead.

Greg's missed him like mad.

_As if he's been gone for weeks._

_God help me. I'll all in here, aren't I?_

As he does up his tie in the mirror, Greg meets his own eye. He gives himself a small smile. "Yep," he tells his reflection. "You _are,_ mate. Now don't show us up."

He had the taxi booked by ten this morning. As it arrives, Greg's waiting on the pavement outside his flat - proper suit, proper shirt, cologne and coat. He's not in Mycroft's league. He knows he isn't.

But he's going to dress for the top of his own, and if he looks like he's trying hard, then frankly: good.

There's a touch of traffic on the road. Greg's pretty sure he'll make it for seven, but he texts all the same just in case - a quick note with a smile and two kisses.

The taxi pulls up with three minutes to spare, and Greg's heart doubles in size as he lays eyes on the restaurant. It looks like a Mycroft restaurant.

_He's here. Waiting for me. First big date._

_God almighty, let it just be the first._

Greg pays the driver, tips, then with a deep breath approaches the doors. His pulse is leaping in his ears with every step - joy, excitement and panic all at once. It won't settle until he sees Mycroft.

Nervous, he gives his name to the waiter - who checks, nods, and gladly shows him through to the dining area.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft stands when he sees Greg coming, heart gently thudding in his chest. He wants to kiss him. That’s part of the appeal of the table he likes in the back corner (originally chosen, via Anthea, for proximity to the kitchen egress and difficult sightlines for any threats): the viewing angles are such that no one pays him or anyone he chooses to bring with him much mind.  So he could.

But. 

_ He might not be as out as I am.  _

It hadn’t come up yet, that pesky matter of whether one’s work or friends or family would be… difficult. Mycroft has long taken strength in apathy- his family has never had an interest in his personal life long enough to mind that he’s gay, the security services vaguely considered it an asset to have options in who they sent when they needed someone seduced, and at his current level it wasn’t as if anyone was going to bring it up to his face if they did have an issue with it. 

Greg is police, though, potentially a worse old-boys-club even than politics when it comes to matters like this.

But the closer Greg gets, the better Mycroft can see the pleased look on his face and he tosses his concerns to the side.

The waiter gestures over to the table and leaves them to get settled. “Hello, Greg.” Mycroft grasps Greg by the elbow and pulls him closer, planting a kiss on his cheek in greeting.  _ Like any other couple might.  _ Then he pulls out Greg’s chair, ever the gentleman.

_ Well. Perhaps not a gentleman, given what I’ve planned for later. _

“I took the liberty of ordering the wine...” It’s a burgundy, well suited to most of the menu, so it should pair well with anything Greg might want. “...and I would recommend looking at the prix fixe. Anything you like- I take the ransom of my book quite seriously.” 

 

*

 

Greg's grin feels like it's going to break off his face as Mycroft kisses him.  _ Christ, like any couple... oh, Christ.  _ He spent the entire day missing Mycroft, and still didn't realise how much he missed him. It's been a week since they saw each other.  _ How did I manage a whole week? _

Greg can't bring himself to feel wary. This isn't a blokey pub somewhere with football and bar snacks - it feels safe here. Nice people, quiet, an atmosphere to die for. Something smells so good he wants to bottle the smell to take home. This is gorgeous.

_ God, can all this really be real? _

"Jesus, it's good to see you... you look amazing..." The words come out of Greg before he can stop them - and he can't bring himself to take them back. "This place is beautiful, too. Don't think I've ever been somewhere so fancy in my life."

Glancing at the menu, Greg has to suppress a double-take at the price.  _ Sweet Christ.  _

"A-Are you sure?" he says. "I -  _ definitely _ owe you cake next time at the café. A whole one. Just point at it, and I'll tell them to put it in a box."

 

*

 

“You look wonderful too- I believe we’ve even managed to coordinate unintentionally.” Mycroft smiles, nodding to their respective shades of blue. 

It feels a bit romantic, watching Greg in the warm glow of a candle looking around in surprised wonder.

_ If that is the face this sort of date elicits, I am going to take him somewhere even more impressive next time. _

_ Next time.  _

_ Yes. _

He grins further watching Greg size up the menu.  _ Exactly why I ordered the wine before he could see how much it cost.  _ “Anything you like, Greg. No cake required.” 

He leans back with a casual air, just in case the price is enough to make Greg nervous- that’s not his intent, even if he does want to make it clear he has no qualms spending this sort of money on Greg.  _ Treating him well.  _ “Everything is delectable- I am torn between the crab and the oysters to start, myself, but the duck is my favorite entree.”

 

*

 

Greg can only grin and shake his head as he looks along the menu, lost in choice. Every single item sounds amazing. He's not sure how he'll manage to taste a mouthful of them, though - he has a feeling he'll be too busy gazing at Mycroft. In some part of his mind, he thought places like this didn't realise exist. He thought they were a myth, almost. It turns out he's wrong.

"Christ... well - crab sounds fantastic. If I go for that, we could share?" 

His eyes glitter; he doesn't know if that's  _ the done thing _ in restaurants like this. He supposes Mycroft knew he was a scruffy alleycat when he invited him here. He only has himself to blame if Greg embarrasses him in front of upstanding people. 

"Other than that... mushroom soup, maybe - though I'll admit the duck sounds nice. Might even have that as a main. 'Scuse me - as a..." He squints.  _ "Les viandes et les volailles." _

He mangles the French. He squashes every sound out of shape until the words are unrecognisable. It's a valiant effort, but that possibly makes it worse. 

He's about to explain that the last time someone spoke any French in the Lestrade family, Victoria was on the throne and people earned about 75p for a sixty-hour working week - then he spots something lower on the menu. 

His eyes widen at once; a small and involuntary noise escapes him.

_ "Warm chocolate praline tart, roasted hazelnuts, caramel pear sauce and chocolate sorbet. _ Are you serious? I'm not going to survive this, Mycroft. I hope you know that."

 

*

 

“Mmm. We can share, if you like oysters.” Because that means more of Greg’s delightful grins for each dish, and Mycroft is glad to have as many of those as he can get. Even if it also means a very unfortunate interpretation of French to go along with it.

He laughs outright when Greg nearly keels over at the dessert listing. “I’m sure you’ll live, Greg, and if not I might find it in my heart to give you mouth-to-mouth until you are sufficiently resuscitated.” He lifts his brows meaningfully and then turns a perfectly innocent expression to the waiter who comes to check on them. 

Mycroft then gives the order, for both of them, in fluent French.

He’s showing off. Perhaps. A bit. But, in his defense, Greg is  _ very _ handsome, especially in his deep blue shirt that sets off his hair so nicely, and Mycroft must compensate for his own shortcomings as best he can. 

_ Stop staring. _

Ah, yes, and now his mind has wandered while he’s musing on Greg’s many aesthetically pleasing features.  _ Most excellent.  _ His hand finds his wine glass.

“Did you end up having a relaxing week?”

 

*

 

Greg resists the urge to squirm slightly in his seat as Mycroft slips into - of course - perfect, fluent French. It's hard not to watch the back and forth of it with a smile, clueless as to what's being said but just enjoying the wrap of Mycroft's mouth around the language. Greg wonders if he'll ever really stop being dazzled by Mycroft.

He doubts it.

This can't possibly fade and become normal. It's too exciting. Mycroft's confidence is infectious, and the more of it Greg sees, the more he wants. Being here together is amazing.

As he takes his first drink of wine, his mouth twitches in a smile.  _ Of course it tastes different. It's not cheap Sainsburys house red, that's why. It's proper stuff.  _ It tastes pretty magnificent, and he realises at once that he'll have to watch himself. The last thing he wants is to get blind drunk before desserts have even arrived.

At the enquiry about his week, his face shifts into two expressions at once. The brief skip is beaten by the smile. His eyes shine, and he takes a drink.

"All sorts, really. Wednesday was a bit mental - work went off like a bomb - quieter on Thursday... I dropped in on Marmalade yesterday morning. She says she misses you. Hopes you had fun doing all your secret government stuff."

Smiling, one eyebrow raised, he adds,

"I didn't see any sign of the black-and-white guy while I was there... must have been in the back asleep. Marmalade seemed okay, though."

_ Christ. Updating him on our cat. _

"Wish I could tell you I had a productive day today, but ah... kinda focused on this bit, if I'm honest. Feels like it's started properly now." Greg bites his lip a little, his eyes soft and bright at once. "This is - really nice. I mean it."

 

*

 

_ Now that was an interesting microexpression.  _ Mycroft catalogs it- facial analysis is not really his area, but there was something… though it could just be that Greg is downplaying his work difficulties. That is something people do in conversation, isn’t it? Either diminish points of vexation so as not to seem to be whinging, or play up their problems for a feeling of mutual struggle. 

_ Likely the former. He’s far too honest to be keeping secrets. _

“I am glad you had a chance to see her,” Mycroft says of Greg’s meeting with Marmalade. “Seems like she would prefer to have her loyal subjects there daily, if possible.”

As to his ‘secret government stuff’, Mycroft only smiles enigmatically.  He could elaborate, a bit, but he can hear Anthea’s voice berating him in the back of his mind that she does not care how much he likes Greg, this is a third date and he is not to elaborate on his position until things a bit farther along. Or never, if she had her way.

Not that she had to play by her own rules- she met Juliette as a part of a joint crisis-management effort, so they are fully aware of each other’s positions, if not the precise details of what the other is working on at any given time.

“I- yes. I agree.” He can feel himself blushing lightly- something about Greg just does that to him- likely that damnable way he bites his lip. It compels him to reach across the table and lightly stroke the back of Greg’s hand. “I want to treat you well, Greg.” 

He removes it only when the waiter comes round with their first courses, the crab and oysters, presenting them with a bland smile. 

“Your questions did keep me diverted while I was ensconced in institutional purgatory, you know. Where did you acquire those from?”

 

*

 

Greg grins, nudging his plate at once closer to Mycroft in an offer of welcome. The crab looks amazing - then, having seen how much Mycroft is paying for it, he's not surprised. 

"Did you like them? I hoped they'd get you thinking... sure you've done enough thinking over the last few days. 'Different thinking', maybe."

He takes up his fork, carefully dividing his soft shell crab into two as he speaks. 

"Used to use the first two when I was training new recruits. Good way to find out how someone wants to be seen - and what actually makes them happy."

He looks up from the plate, and drops Mycroft a wink. 

"Third one's just for you," he adds. "Used to be ‘what's your favourite swear-word?’ for the recruits. But this is a classy place, and you're far too posh for that kinda nonsense."

 

*

 

“Oh, that is the classy version, is it? I see.” Mycroft spears a bit of Greg’s crab and puts one of his own oysters on Greg’s plate in exchange.

“It was helpful to… alter what I was thinking about. Some of my work can be… consuming. Probably healthy to have something else break up the rigor, let the more analytic side have a rest.” 

_ Suitably vague. Anthea would be pleased. _

“I imagine my answers would be a bit different than a police recruit’s. I would guess for the animals you saw a lot of lions and bears and wolves? Perhaps some dogs for loyalty as well.”

He delicately raises one of the oyster shells to his lips and tips the lot in, chewing thoughtfully. Now that he knows it’s a sort of personality test, he can also see how telling his answers might be- but he’s not going to change them, they’re still honest.

“My selection is the giant squid.”

He leans back to see what Greg makes of that. 

 

*

 

Greg laughs. It's a loud, open, happy bark of a laugh, enough to catch a couple of fleeting glances from across the room. He can't help it. He puts his fork down, still with his first piece of crab skewered, and folds his arms across his chest.

"A giant squid," he says, surveying Mycroft with utter delight. His eyes crinkle, his mouth twists, and he realises in the space of a heartbeat that he's never going to forget this night. "Excuse me -  _ the  _ giant squid. Well, Trainee Constable Holmes. What this means is that you're going to be  _ the rascal  _ in my induction group this week. I've already decided you're going through the obstacle course first, and if I have to demonstrate disarming a suspect at any point, it's going to be you hauled up front for the demonstration. We'll be engaging in top-grade banter by Wednesday and I expect you at the pub next week for a pint.  _ Why the giant squid?" _

 

*

 

“The rascal? That’d be a change of pace,” Mycroft says with a glint in his eye indicating that’s not entirely true.

“I would select the-  _ a-  _ giant squid because they’re an enigma. So few have been spotted still alive- one of the rare creatures we know more about from myth than reality, misunderstood sightings that became legends. People only became certain they were even real because they found corpses, from time to time.”

“Add onto that we know they dwell in parts of the ocean humans have never explored- I’d like to see all that, all the parts humanity has never accessed. It’s an area entirely unknown.” He has a somewhat wistful look, a bit of longing, like something in this has been lacking from his own life.

“Besides, it’s always been rumored they might be able to rip a small ship in half, and that might be useful from time to time.” Mycroft grins cheekily.

He spears another piece of Greg’s crab. “Now what’s yours?”

 

*

 

_ Christ.  _

Greg can't even decide where to begin exploring that. He has a feeling he'll be returning to Mycroft's answer over and over in the coming weeks, and he'll find himself sitting right here again - watching Mycroft with the same daft smile, his eyes bright as stars, enjoying every word of it.

It's not easy to pull the meaning out of it. Mycroft's not sitting in a room of other recruits, trying to hint to them he's brave and loyal too. That answer's not about how Mycroft wants to appear to a group. If Greg was half the arrogant bastard he'd like to be, he'd say it's about how Mycroft wants to appear to him - but he doesn't think that's true.

That answer's from the heart. It's how Mycroft appears to himself.

It fascinates him.

An enigma, barely even believed to exist - out of reach - deep down, somewhere safe, somewhere people can't even dream of. 

Is it adventure? The pioneer, longing to be something no-one else has been? Or is there some hint of the sea monster safe in its cave, hidden away from mortal intrusion?

Greg has a feeling it might even be a bit of both.

Remembering he's in a restaurant, sitting next to a plate of the best-looking soft shelled crab he's ever seen, he reaches for the fork with a smile.

As he chews, he says,

"If you  _ were  _ a roomful of recruits, I'd tell you I'd be a koala for a week. 'Cause they sleep twenty-two hours a day and they don't have to do any paperwork." He puts down his fork, taking a small crumb of tempura batter from the tip of his thumb with his tongue. "Thereby encouraging you to relax with me, so you'll pay attention and learn better."

His eyes shine.

"Honestly? I'd be a beaver for a week."

 

*

 

The koala makes sense- Mycroft can see the advantage in the humor of it, but they are also animals known for a relatively docile looking exterior that are surprisingly protective of their own territories. 

_ Might say a bit more about him than he thinks. _

Beaver…  _ hm, Sherlock always had the better memory for biology. _ He tries to think as he eats another oyster. Family units, if he remembered correctly, and obviously the dams. A full house, then? Or perhaps it is the appeal of the forest wild?

_ Are they one of the ones that mate for life? _

Too romantic of an idea, probably- Mycroft still allows himself a small smile at the thought, and elects to place one of his two remaining oysters on Greg’s plate.

“I suppose we both like the water, then?”

 

*

 

Greg bites his lip. He'd not made that connection - water.

"I suppose so," he says, amused for a second by the idea of a giant squid and its beaver friend. It'd be a hell of a big dam to build. He almost didn't mind that, though. He'd spend the week quietly working, fetching logs and stripping the bark off, squashing them into place with mud while the giant squid kept an eye out for hunters and bears. They'd get on great.  _ Swimmingly,  _ he thinks, and has to drink just to wipe the stupid smile off his face. 

He chases it with an oyster, which leaves him now ruined for oysters for life. If they tasted this good everywhere, he probably wouldn't eat much else.

"I like the way they just quietly get on with things," he says. "Just... get somewhere nice, look after it. Seems like a nice way to spend a week. They always seem pretty relaxed on the telly. I'm sure they've got their own problems to deal with, but... I don't know. I just like them."

The fact they're among only three percent of mammals that seem to be happy to stay faithful to each other, Greg keeps to himself. It's not a conversation to have over appetizers.  _ I'd like to be a beaver because they're romantically stable.  _

It'd be a funny anecdote for Mycroft, at least.  _ 'That odd policeman with the beavers. Thank God he eventually stopped texting.' _

 

*

 

“Sounds like a nice way to spend the time,” Mycroft notes amiably, certainly not noting Greg’s lip being bitten  _ again, _ and finishes his last oyster- the waiter appears nearly instantly to abscond with his plate. 

“I somehow have the feeling you would build an excellent dam…” he feels his phone twitch in his pocket and sighs. “Apologies, I would hold myself to the standard of forbearing technology at the table but my work does not agree with me on the subject.”

It’s Anthea.  _ Smallwood wants to bump Monday debrief to Sunday. _

Mycroft glares at the device.

[19:49]  _ No. MH _

It goes back in his pocket with little ceremony and he smiles apologetically, taking a lengthy sip of his wine. 

“So- relaxing by drifting down a stream in the middle of the wood? Or are you more of the ‘relaxing means a massive building project’ sort?” Mycroft can see it either way- not that he’s focusing too much on the idea of Greg floating shirtless down a river.

_ But he would look excellent doing it. _

 

*

 

Greg nudges the plate of soft shell crab into the middle of the table, smiling as he picks up a piece with his fork. He wonders who Mycroft just told to piss off.

"I'm about to discover I've not thought this beaver thing through, aren't I?" he says, grinning and lifting the fork to his mouth. When he's swallowed, he shuts his eyes to concentrate. "Okay, hang on. Let me imagine it. Me, a beaver... it's the beaver weekend... got some time to myself. What m'I going to do with it?"

It crosses his mind that it depends what the giant squid will be doing. 

Greg smiles, nudging that thought to the side, and comes to his answer.

"Okay -  _ right now  _ in my life - I'd kinda like a project. It's been a while since I saw something...  _ grow.  _ You know? Since I worked on something, put time into it, and got to stand back and admire it when it was done... I feel like that'd be great right now. I don't know, maybe I spend too much time just... 'relaxing' these days. Telly and the couch. Less like relaxing, more like 'waiting for bed', some nights..."

He realises this is getting a little more psychological than he'd ever planned. It makes him grin rather sheepishly. 

"Is that the wrong answer?" he says, his eyes glittering. "Are you about to tell me you're a 'drifting down the stream' sort of man?"

 

*

 

“Mmmm… not entirely. I appreciate a bit of relaxing, but I prefer it when it’s earned. I don’t… enjoy quite as many activities outside of work as I perhaps should.” Mycroft sips his wine. “I used to try and keep up with the piano, but at a certain point that wasn’t fulfilling anymore and I let the habit slide.”

_ There is… the other thing. _ Unfortunately the last few times he’d alluded to it on dates, or even dropped a hint about it at work, anyone who heard looked at him like he’d grown another head. Apparently Mycroft Holmes does not present a convincing suggestion of having a spirit of  _ whimsy _ buried within him _. _

His provocative side is somehow far more believable. 

“Though- in the interest of transparency- I am not entirely opposed to the idea of watching  _ you _ build something while  _ I _ drift down a stream.”  

He grins somewhat ferally and steals another bite of the crab.

_ Behave, you’re not even out of the first course yet. _

“Or, I suppose, if this is my squid form we are discussing, lurking somewhere nearby, likely too large to fit in a stream at all- though I suppose I could tear a ship apart and gift you the lumber.”

 

*

 

Greg's grin mirrors Mycroft's at once. He can't help it. The sight of the man smiling like that is all he needs to smile. 

"Imagine our dam when I'm done," he says, his eyes shining. "Full of broken ships. Bits of wheel. Cannons sticking out of it, big flapping bits of sail. Nobody'll give us any grief at least, will they?"

_ Can't believe I actually like the sound of this. There's my retirement sorted.  _

_ How will I tell Andy I'm moving to a huge pond with a squid?  _

_ Thought I was enough of an idiot for leaving Karen. Wait until he gets a look at my beaver lodge. _

_... how strong is this bloody wine? _

Within moments of Greg's last piece of crab, their server appears to take the plate. He tops up their glasses for them, and Greg naturally settles into quiet. Part of it is respect - he can't cope being one of those people who pretends that service staff just don't exist, and keep talking while they're here. Most of it is his natural need for privacy.

It's not as if they're talking anything delicate - but this happy, intimate silliness makes him feel like he doesn't want to share. He's spent the week dreaming it would be like this. He's so happy to find it is that he wants to keep it all to themselves.

As the server sets the wine back down, Greg gives him a small smile. He leaves; Greg's smile returns to its proper place across the table, brightening. 

After a moment's pause, he lays his hand quietly upon the tablecloth. His fingertips find the side of Mycroft's hand, and he brushes it gently.

It feels nice just to touch. 

He's glad of the corner table - very few people in the room are in a position to see. He wonders if Mycroft picked it on purpose.

"So... that's question one out of the way. Are you now going to shock me with question two as well?"

 

*

 

“It would be quite the fortress, I’m sure.”

The gentle contact- a result of simple affection, if Mycroft is any judge, and no guile- is warming to his soul. He doesn’t have the chance much, to display emotions that are  _ his _ and not a finely crafted guise meant to inspire something in the viewer. 

Greg just makes him smile.

He reciprocates the contact, tracing his little finger against Greg’s palm, his gaze fond, chuckling mildly at the question. 

“I was not aware my answer to the first question would be considered shocking. But then I suppose we squids are rare creatures, often hidden beneath dark waters, so it is quite difficult to encounter one of us in the wild and know that you have done so.” 

He grins and shifts his hand as the waiter returns with Greg’s soup and Mycroft’s salad- not retracting it, but making space by sliding his hand over Greg’s. “ _ Merci _ ,” he offers as the waiter departs, and takes a sip of his wine.

“As for the second query…. Something to do before I am eighty, wasn’t it? The first option I considered is journeying to Antarctica- it’s the only continent I have not travelled to for work, in one way or another.”

 

*

 

_ "Antarctica?"  _

Greg almost drops his soup spoon. He just about keeps hold of it, to his own amazement, and asks with a grin, "Can you - even go there normally? I mean... not as an expedition, just... rock up like a tourist? Surely they don't have hotels and stuff."

He's hardly travelled anywhere since his twenties - not proper travel, nothing that had even the smallest hint of adventure. Karen kept them to places with a beach, a bar, and staff that spoke English. So long as she came home with a tan she could show off at work, she didn't care about culture or sightseeing. Their few attempts at city breaks inevitably led to arguments, Karen bored and Greg wondering why he expected any different. 

He has a feeling Mycroft would be great to travel with. 

He's probably well-organised, and makes the most of the time. Greg can see him as the type to insist on using the local language. He probably finds his way to places that the crowds miss - places that are quiet and unique.

Greg hopes he gets to find out if he's right someday.

 

*

 

“There are tourist excursions, yes. Mostly from ships- smaller cruise liners, yachts, that sort of thing. Some of them are even a bit ambitious- skiing or hiking or actually leading people to the Pole- I have a suspicion they manage that last bit by helicopter most of the time.”

Mycroft has gone simple for his salad course- just greens and goat cheese and walnuts with balsamic dressing- keeping it light so he can justify his dessert later. It’s the same reason he selected the oysters- a small amount of food played up far more in presentation and flavor than size and calories. He looks well pleased with it as he takes his first bite.

“I don’t know about all the- athletic elements- but I would like to see the place. And I am reasonably sure it’s a location where my job would be nearly incapable of reaching me, which is appealing from time to time.”

Speaking of- his phone buzzes again and his eyes narrow instinctively, drawing it out with another thin, apologetic smile for Greg.

[20:15]  _ She’s being rather insistent. Apparently worried we missed something.  _ It’s not Anthea’s fault, of course, but he struggles not to vent at her- he’s grateful she serves as a filter for these things. 

[20:16]  _ We missed nothing in the information provided by her people. If she is concerned, turn her attention to her own team first. Ours can only analyze what is given. MH _

He considers for a moment, then taps out one additional message.

[20:17]  _ I am going to cease responding after 2100. Emergencies only after that point. MH _

“Apologies again, Greg. One of my compatriots is apparently insufficiently occupied this evening and has decided to be a nuisance to ours.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lux says: This is probably my favorite Book One chapter. Truly a joy to write with Moth. :)


	12. Chapter 12

Greg smiles back, taking the opportunity to eat some of his soup with no chance of tipping it down his front. He's had weeks at work before where, every two minutes, something new is kicking off. He understands.

He wishes he knew how to put it into words that Mycroft's professional commitments are kinda working for him. 

People  _ need  _ Mycroft. Important people, from the look of things - people working past seven on a Saturday. And yet he's here with Greg, eating salad and soup, talking about Antarctica and giant squids.

It's a warm feeling. 

_ Worth his interest.  _

_ Everybody wants him. He wants me. _

Eyes bright, Greg reaches for his wine glass as Mycroft finishes his text. 

"S'fine, Mycroft. Honestly." He drinks, then adds with a twinkle, "I know you're a big deal, posh boy... don't worry. It's not a nuisance. And it gives me a minute to think of something more impressive to aim for before I'm eighty."

 

*

 

Mycroft peers over his salad fork. Something about the way Greg says  _ “posh boy” _ is quite endearing. Of course, it is also the sort of thing that could be said in a certain way teasingly over dinner and quite a different way in his ear, later….

He smiles to himself as he shifts in his seat.

“It isn’t that impressive- a bit exotic for a holiday, but it’s just a holiday, really. I’m afraid I’m not the sort who wants to… skydive, or run a marathon, or anything like that.”

The salad is good, the balsamic works well with the flavor of the wine, which is particularly helpful as dealing with Lady Smallwood is making him wish for something a fortifying. 

_ Not overly fortifying, however. I’ll want all my faculties intact when we leave. _

His lip quirks up at the corner. 

“You don’t have a prepared answer for your trainee groups? Or is that the part where you say something like ‘end all crime in London’?”

 

*

 

Greg grins, almost guiltily. 

"Usually tell them I want to skydive," he admits - and before Mycroft can worry, he laughs. "Just one of those easy things to say. Honestly, work were looking for people to do a charity skydive last year - asked me if I would. I try to be game for stuff like that... morale, y'know. Hard to keep it high when you're dealing with homicides every week. I turned them down in the end. Really wasn't that fussed."

He takes a drink, smiling at Mycroft over the rim of his glass.

"Never been able to find one big answer to that, to tell the truth. I could tell you five or six boring little things I fancy doing... things like having a cat again. Taking my nieces on holiday. Go to one of the proper comedy clubs some time, see if they're any good. Not really major life goals, though..."

His life goals had always been fairly flexible. Divorce had thrown even his vaguest ideas out the window. It was hard to plan when everything was moving around you, when every week could bring another solicitor's letter to screw things up. He felt like was leaving the last of that now. 

He wondered if he'd find his way back to big plans and big dreams. Right now, he was still at the 'starting small' stage.

"Let's say 'move out of my flat'," he decided in the end, smiling. "Frankly, if I  _ don't  _ manage that before I'm eighty, there's been a serious problem..."

 

*

 

Mycroft is prepared to walk his statement back, his mouth opens to say that skydiving is a perfectly acceptable answer, just not something he is daring enough to face-

But then he listens to the rest of Greg’s answer. 

_ There’s a sort of sadness in it. _

_Honesty, yes, practicality, yes…_ _but still a sadness._

All of them were things that, based on Mycroft’s albeit limited experience with Greg, he should be able to do. It was more surprising that he hadn’t done them already.

Perhaps he had some… financial issues that have prevented him? Mycroft is not familiar in specifics with the salary of an officer of Scotland Yard, but it should be sufficient to manage a ticket to a comedy club or a holiday weekend somewhere with two children unconcerned with a high-brow resort or expense account liquors.

_ I could ask- could offer…. No. Don’t pry. A man like him must have some pride... it could wound him to just offer everything he’s wanted, there for him on a plate.  _

_ Yet what good is having money if you can’t ease someone’s cares with it? _

Mycroft certainly had enough, and little enough that he wanted to buy.

_ No one else to spend it on. _

His brow furrows, just a little, without his knowing, a tiny hint of worry sneaking into his eyes.

“That sounds very sensible, Greg,” he says gently, yet trying to maintain the air of casual affability they’ve succeeded in keeping up so far. “Are you looking for a flat?”

 

*

 

Greg has enough experience with tiny frowns to feel his stomach grip tight on sight of one. He skips in his mouthful of soup, cleans the spoon off quickly with his mouth and reaches for a napkin to dab just at the sides. 

He's sure he's not spilled any. He just needs a second.

He realises, with a nervous glance, that Mycroft's expression isn't suspicion. It's not the slow look that experience has taught him prefaces a fight, whether he wants one or not. This isn't a first warning sign of trouble - his security systems have handed him a false alarm. 

That look is worry. Concern.

While it's enough to settle his fear, another unwelcome possibility immediately occurs. 

_ Jesus, say something. Quick. Before he thinks you're a forty-five-year-old loser with no life goals or plans. _

"Oh, no - I - take a look in estate agent windows now and then, but..."

_ Christ. No, that's worse. Stop it. Stop being suspicious.  _

"I had a sort of finance - blip last year. Been trying to keep things back in reserve, in case - s-sort of waiting for it all to - "

_ Oh, holy shit, he'll think you're up to something. Gambling. Drugs or something. _

_ Jesus. This is getting deceptive now.  _

_ You can't keep it from him much longer. _

_ Okay, breathe. Just - just keep it casual -  _

"Erm," he begins, with the look of a man confessing a previous conviction for murder. "I - s-sort of went through a divorce. Came through a bit over a year ago. It'd been dragging along for years by that point, and - we were separated over a year before I told her that I wanted - a-and we'd been fighting for even longer before that."

Greg swallowed, pulling his hands beneath the table to disguise their shake. 

_ Christ. There it is. _

_ Christ, don't go.  _

_ I'm not broken. I'm not damaged goods. _

_ If I tell you everything she did, we'll be here for days. You'll think I'm making half of it up. You'll think I'm demented and still in love with her. I'm not. I just can't process some of the shit she did. I probably haven't even found out about all of it yet. _

"It just - th-threw things into chaos a bit. A lot. For a long while. I've kinda - fallen out of the habit of... plans. Looking forward to stuff. In case - "

_ She finds a way to fuck it up. _

_ Finds a way to take it off me. _

_ Fuck, I'm not in love with her. Please. I know it looks like I am. Meant to be a man and just walk away from it. If I was the wife, they'd have got me counselling. Someone would've looked after me. Everyone would. They all just left. _

_ Christ, don't leave. _

" - erm - I - I know e-everyone probably says this about their exes, but she - did some stuff that maybe wasn't great. She - wasn't that impressed when I told her I wanted a divorce. She's good at causing trouble. So I - I kinda just got myself somewhere safe to - "

_ Oh fuck, fuck - fucking STOP -  _

_ Somewhere SAFE? Stop fucking talking. _

"Yikes," he concludes, with a wince, and reaches for wine. He downs half the glass in one. "Sorry. I - sh-should have told you. I know this looks like - ... I just don't want you to think - ... look, I  _ r-really _ like you. I like talking to you. I like being with you. I can't tell you how good it felt, thinking all that could be in the past. I know I should have said something before now... m'sorry - "

 

*

 

_ This is a bit... alarming. _

Not that Greg has an ex, or that the divorce was in whatever way nasty. It’s the way he talks about her. Even just this small amount of information is enough to raise Mycroft’s protective hackles, alongside a few tentative red flags of concern.

It’s the expression on Greg’s face, however, that makes him want to say  _ Let me have her relocated to the bottom of the ocean for you. Maybe the Arctic Circle, so she doesn’t interfere when I take you to Antarctica.  _ The sort of thing normal people say- he thinks- when they’re commiserating over someone difficult. Only in Mycroft’s case it could be serious, so he holds his tongue.

He’s going to have to look at Anthea’s file. Not at Greg’s portion- he can maintain a bit of privacy there- but this woman must be there as well. 

Mycroft is looking forward to dissecting her already.

However- now- he feels his first task is to de-escalate. They can talk about this further later, somewhere quiet, but Mycroft doesn’t want Greg having a borderline panic attack in a restaurant over it. He’s clearly embarrassed enough as it is.

“Greg,” he puts down his salad fork that has been stranded, hovering over the greens as Greg spoke, “I don’t mind that you’re divorced. Statistically, we’re old enough that one of us should be.”

His ability to manage crises has not ever really included the gentle sort of bedside manner that would be suited here, but he does try, reaching across the table to brush his fingers against Greg’s, offering but not forcing the contact, letting his hand rest just next to Greg’s. If he wants it.

“It’s only our third date, you don’t really have to tell me anything. Not if you don’t want to. There wasn’t any reason it should have come up before now.”

He watches Greg’s face, eyes soft and soothing, but not quite able to disguise the sharp, protective part of him that lurks beneath.  _ Maybe tossing her to the inside of volcano would be better. _

“That said, I think she’s a fool for not realizing what she had in you- but I’m glad she didn’t, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to have a date with you at all.”

 

*

 

Greg's fingers take the offer of contact almost at once - curling, tentative, as if he doesn't quite dare to hold. He wants to. It's written on every inch of his face as he listens to Mycroft in silence, pale, some of his fear unknotting itself into relief. 

The protective edge to Mycroft's gaze is what finally thickens his throat. 

He grips Mycroft's hand -  _ shit, shit  _ \- and inhales in utter silence, hauling his thoughts to that feeling of expansion in his chest. His shoulders barely lift; nothing new crosses his face. It's all beneath the surface as the flames of rising panic are blown into nothing by the deep, silent, almost invisible drag of oxygen.  _ Shit. Easy. Easy, easy. It's fine - he's fine - we're fine. _

His exhale flutters their candle ever so slightly. 

By the time it's done, Greg's fingers have relaxed around Mycroft's. He realises he isn't sure how hard he was gripping them. He rubs his thumb over the back of Mycroft's hand in mute apology, shaking a little as he glances down at their fingers joined.

The sight quietens the last of his fear. 

He swallows it back, carefully; he looks up into Mycroft's eyes.

"You're great." He almost doesn't dare say anything else. That quietly protective look nearly killed him, but he realises it left bravery in its wake. It's enough to speak. "You're -  _ really _ great. I don't have a clue what you're doing here with me. M'really glad you are."

Though the smile he gives is small, it's utterly genuine. His eyes glimmer in the candle's glow.

"Marmalade thinks I'd be good for you, anyway..." He tightens his hand a little. "Seems like she's got plans. Can't let her down."

 

*

 

“Because I like you, Greg.” Mycroft smiles, discreetly masking his need to stretch his fingers as a gentle stroke of affection.

_ He does have a bit of a grip. _

“I don’t know why Marmalade likes  _ me,  _ to be honest. My only thought is that I must seem an obvious candidate for a person likely not to move for long stretches, and therefore make a suitable bed. You give her bacon and I am sure much more fuss than I do.” 

He huffs a laugh. “Although perhaps they should advertise her services as a matchmaker, raise some funds for the rescue.”

He sips his wine again, noting that they’ve actually gone through it a bit faster than he expected. 

_ Dangerous idea, Mycroft. This is how you end up stumbling home and embarrassing yourself by vomiting in your sitting room.  _

Yet perhaps he’s had enough to ease his impulse control anyway. “Should I order a second bottle?”

 

*

 

_ Christ, don't let me end up drunk and throwing up in your lounge. _

_ Still... _

Maybe there's some sense in indulging in the liquid relaxant here -  _ so long as we drink at the same pace, _ Greg figures.  _ Shouldn't be too bad. _ He can't imagine they've got wildly different tolerance levels. When he was younger, he could drink like a rugby team and still be up playing five-a-side football the next morning, but those days are behind him now. 

He returns the affectionate brush of fingers, his smile growing easier. The worst case scenario is out of the way. The big deal isn't a big deal. 

'Relief' isn't the word.

"Sure... sure, I could go for another drink - I guess with four courses, we'll have plenty to soak it up..." He grins a little, realising he's breathing easy again. Hearing Mycroft chat about Marmalade is the most comforting thing he can imagine in the world right now. "Greasy breakfast in the morning, problem sorted..."

 

*

 

_ Four courses, yes, but I think I went a bit lighter on the selections than you…. _

Mycroft can manage it, though. Besides, his home is in walking distance and he’ll have a lovely policeman on his arm. That’s about as safe as it gets.

He has made decent progress on his salad at least, though he’s not sure how much wine that will help absorb.

_ If I throw up at least I won’t have to work off the calories on the treadmill. _

He nods to the server with a glance at the wine- he’s been here before, and in this price range it isn’t shocking that a second bottle would be requested. By the time he brings it they’ll likely also be done with their second courses, saving the man a trip.

His eyes shift fondly back to Greg.

The idea of sharing breakfast- that they both are already so comfortable that they know they will- bears a sense of warm delight through his chest.

“I did acquire a more… expansive selection… of breakfast goods than I usually stock, so you can make as much bacon as is required to cure any ill effects.”

 

*

 

Greg's eyes light up. 

"You bought special breakfast stuff?" he says, grinning. He reaches for his soup spoon again, his heart hopping happily behind his ribs at the casual way they're discussing this now.  _ Of course I'll be there for breakfast. Of course I'm coming home with you. How else could this end?  _

Mycroft's affection seems so easy and honest that it reassures Greg to the very centre of his heart. 

He supposes they both work with liars of one form or another - complex situations where truth gets blurry, government and crime, and life's too short to make the weekend into a negotiation too. 

_ Christ, I want to be with you. Just... all of it. The whole lot. Everything. Look at you. _

_ Jesus, this is happening. It's happening to me. _

_ Normal conversation, Lestrade. Come on. We can do this. _

"What's your unexpanded selection of breakfast goods normally involve?" he asks, making a guess ahead of time. Mycroft's maybe a cereals man.  _ Grapefruit,  _ he thinks.  _ Fancy yoghurt. _

 

*

 

“Fruit, primarily. Sometimes a bit of oatmeal, yoghurt… usually a smoothie, however. Easy to pour into a travel cup and carry with me, and I can set it to blend while I’m still getting ready. No cooking to mind or anything.”

_ Keeps the weight down so there’s less snide remarks at Christmas…. _

“I suspected you might be a bit more, ah-”  _ Normal. Masculine.  _ “-red-blooded than I am about it, so I put in for eggs, bread, cheese, that sort of thing.”

He’s only a  _ bit _ sensitive about his weight, or so he likes to tell himself. It just seems to increase whenever he’s had a chat with Mummy. Or Sherlock. 

The waiter returns with the second bottle, topping them off with the remainder of the first before stealing away with that and their depleted second courses.  

“I acquired a bit of snack food as well… I thought I might show you my film room and see if anything catches your fancy.” 

_ Assuming that this wine does not have me trying to rip your trousers off as soon as we’re in the door. _

 

*

 

Greg wonders if he'll ever eat breakfast again without thinking of Mycroft standing in a posh kitchen and making a smoothie. He doesn't know why the thought squeezes his heart so tight. He just loves it. He'll get to see it tomorrow morning, too - and then it's going to be even harder to forget.

His face works with amusement at the thought that he's red-blooded in his breakfast tastes. Mycroft's got him spot-on. Sunday mornings are for breakfasts that require several pans. His tiny stove can't really cope with more than one at once - he's gotten good at omelettes.

Looking across the table, he realises he likes the idea of Mycroft's smoothies partly because they're so different. They'd be one of those couples making breakfast around each other in a morning before work - washing up Mycroft's travel mugs for him, putting him a smoothie together if he's short of time, chopping fruit as he scarfs his own cheese on toast. 

_ Christ, man... moving yourself in now, are you? On the third date. Get the brakes on. _

"Glad I get to see the film room at last... I've been looking forward to it." Greg reaches for his topped-up wine glass, grins and takes a sip. "Means I can picture you there when we're texting."

As he stretches his feet a little beneath the table, one of them comes into contact with something else. An experimental stroke, and he satisfies himself that it's Mycroft and not the table leg. 

He lets their ankles brush together, fond.

"Have you laid all the snacks out in a trail?" he says, his eyes warm. "Entice me in there and get me on the sofa?"

 

*

 

Mycroft very deliberately arches a brow. “Would that work? A path of Pringles, perhaps?”

The rustle of fabric under the table, warm contact, runs straight to his spine in a soothing wave. It’s comfortable, relaxing, even, this gentle sort of touch- like they’ve been together for years and granted free rein across each other’s bodies just to casually touch.

“I’ll give you the full tour, of course, it’ll give me an idea of where to lay my snack entrapments for the next occasion.”

He smiles warmly at Greg, leaning back but keep in the contact at their feet as the waiter brings the entrees: Greg’s duck and the veal and lamb loin duo for Mycroft. “I am planning to steal a bit of your duck- I trust that’s not a criminal offense as long I offer you some of mine in turn?”

“Or,” Mycroft carves off a piece of lamb, “is that attempted bribery of a police officer? How indecent.”

He casually lifts his foot and brushes the toe of his shoe up Greg’s ankle and onto the inside of his calf.

 

*

 

_ The next occasion...  _

_ Christ.  _

_ Christ, yes.  _

This is all so comfortable, Greg thinks - so easy. Natural. He can see it growing around them before his eyes. It's like vines - not the jungle-vines that everyone fears, thorny and tight. It's ivy vines. It feels light and green and careful, just hugging them together, gently wrapping around them, seeing if it works. 

It's new, and it's fragile.

But it's growing.

These quiet, easy understandings are everything. They're so reassuring it takes his breath for a second when he looks at them. There'll be Mycroft's arms around him when he wakes up tomorrow; there'll be a next time.  _ Of course there will be.  _

_ Of course I'll share with you. _

"First time I'll have been bribed with veal and lamb loin," Greg says, eyes crinkling with his smile. Mycroft's toe stroking his ankle is... amazing. It's hard not to remember the more intimate touches they've shared. "Lucky for you, it's only attempted bribery if it doesn't work..."

He steals a small piece of veal, grinning. 

"Listen, though... when dessert arrives, and I'm presented with - chocolate praline - whatever it was - I might need to take it away somewhere quiet. You can come too, but don't expect us to be welcome at this restaurant again."

 

*

 

“Mmm. Could have the dessert to go, if you don’t think you can control yourself around it… assuming you think you can wait to start eating it and won’t ravish it on the walk.”

Mycroft has a sweet tooth, but his treats are carefully regulated- cocoas or mochas, cake at the cafe, or the occasional bit of chocolate when work is displeasing, but he knows all their calorie counts. They all either get burned off, or if he can’t get to his treadmill he just pares down his other meals until he’s under his accepted limits.

Taking dessert home might work in his favor for that, really- he’s ordered the miniature pastry assortment, so perhaps he will just eat one and put the rest away to ration out over the week.

Otherwise, as they’re likely to go to the cafe together tomorrow, his Monday may end up containing an exceptionally long run instead of a lunch.

“I wonder if you haven’t outed yourself on your own answer to your third query, if you do indeed have nefarious designs upon your praline,” Mycroft says very innocently, a tiny smirk at his lip. “Something about chocolate, I might guess….”

 

*

 

Greg's eyes glitter. He smirks a little, biting into his lip, and takes a moment to finish his mouthful of food before he speaks. When he's washed it down with wine  _ (Jesus, this stuff is way too drinkable...)  _ he says,

"I've got food on my mind - dinner, eating together... conversation hasn't really taken in much of the other two options. I might have given you a false reading. Let's be honest. You'd have worried a little if I sat here all night asking whether you think the additional locking position on the Model 710C makes all that much difference, or whether when you've got the pick-resistance from the use of non-standard keys, it's all just overkill. With a reminder," he added, with a mischievous flash of his eyes, "that I'm a policeman, and this could be purely professional interest."

 

*

 

_ Oh, no, Greg, please refrain from biting your lip when I’ve had this much wine. I’ve only so much self-restraint. _

Mycroft runs his tongue over one canine. 

“Very professional, hm?”

He takes his own thoughtful sip of wine and stealthily spears a bit of duck from Greg’s plate, subconsciously licking his lip as he looks back across the table. 

“Or- you enjoy all three options, because you wouldn’t have put something on that list you wouldn’t enjoy- just in case of an… enthusiastic response to any of them. Food- possibly  _ illicitly, _ when it comes to chocolate- has been an obvious option from the start. I know you like the outdoors due to your very noble aspirations toward building your own beaver dam. And now you’ve asserted you at least have a very  _ thorough _ understanding of handcuffs.”

_ Lord, that wine. I thought I assured myself we wouldn’t have this part of the conversation at the restaurant. Though it is a bit, well, fun, to look and be unable to touch…. _

 

*

 

Greg's poker face could take some work. He's the first person to admit it. As he listens, he promises himself faithfully that he and Mycroft will never play poker for anything more serious than pringles. Otherwise, he's going to lose a lot of money.

And dignity.

He drinks to cover up as much of his mouth as he can, but he can feel the smile bursting out of him like a floodlight. 

"Pretty sure I said 'pick a favourite'," he says, his eyes shining. "Not 'try to figure out  _ my _ favourite'."

 

*

 

“Mmmhm. My apologies, I must have misunderstood,” Mycroft says with a dastardly smile suggesting exactly the opposite. 

_ I would venture he’s tremendous fun to tease. _

_ Do try and make it home first, Holmes,  _ his more restrained side chimes in.

Home- where he has a lovely comfortable couch, his whirlpool bath, his bed-  _ no, no- desist, or you will be in serious need of adjusting your trousers.  _

He eats a bit, the picture of innocence as he regards Greg in the flickering light of the candle, only his glittering eyes giving him away.

“I have a favourite,” he notes coyly. 

“But I’ve yet to decide if it’s more interesting to tell you straight out or try and have you guess.”

 

*

 

It's all Greg can do not to groan. He drinks to get control of himself, issuing a reminder beneath the table that they'll be a winner here regardless. As he puts the glass down, hoping he looks more composed than he feels, he says,

"Suppose if I'm calling myself a detective, you deserve at least some attempt at detection from me... bearing in mind I've never claimed to be a  _ good  _ detective."

It was partial false modesty - Greg's confidence had taken a kicking in the last few years, but he'd never let work suffer. He'd had enough evidence to know it showed. There'd been hints made at him about DCI when Mackinnon left; his application would apparently be welcomed. One difficult incident on his record aside, he'd made a good job of his career.

_ Not that many cases involve figuring out someone's minor kinks... thank God. _

As he lets Mycroft eat, Greg sits back and takes a long look at him - trying to figure out what's instinct, what's hope and what he has some sort of evidence for, however small. He has a feeling he's about to embarrass himself royally here. It comes out on his face as a slanted smile.

"I'm ruling out outdoors," he says, "due to lack of evidence. Politics is a city sport. You like restaurants and dressing nice. I know you walk, but... I'm not sure. I can't see it."

He bites the side of his tongue, thinking for a moment more.

"Food..." he tries, watching carefully for reaction. "I - don't think you'd kick me out of bed. I'll put it that way. And as for cuffs..." 

_ Christ, I can't. I can't even let that run through my mind.  _

"Suppose I didn't specify which way round that would be going," he says. "Which could make a big difference."

And he waits, rubbing his lower lip between his teeth.

 

*

 

_ Clever boy. _

Mycroft hums thoughtfully. “I’m thoroughly impressed, Greg. Quite the credit to Scotland Yard.”

Sipping his wine to calm his heart, which is already threatening to send the entire contents of his veins directly to his cock, he takes a steadying breath and subconsciously licks his lip.

“Extensive mess has never been a favorite- anything that may require a change of sheets so one doesn’t end up waking up to, say, a faceful of jam sticking them to a pillow.”

He doesn’t have to imagine that one- though fortunately that had been the fate of a university roommate and not himself, and it was due to drunken attempts at snacking, not fornication.

The screaming because said roommate thought he was bleeding was probably what put him a bit off the concept, however Mycroft does have to admit Greg is correct- he would not toss him out of bed if he wished to try it.

“I suppose you didn’t specify, did you. Which way round.”

He sips again, trying very hard to actually  _ picture _ it, or he won’t be able to eventually walk out of the restaurant with his dignity intact. 

_ Think I best not specify either- yet- or we’re both going to be in a bit of trouble.  _

 

*

 

Greg takes a quiet breath, glad he's holding a wine glass. It gives him something to grip. He drinks a little, takes it off with lips with a brush of his tongue, and says,

"Looks like I gave you four options, then... and in the interests of disclosure, just sitting here having dinner with you is working for me. It's - doing  _ everything _ for me. Even if you never fancy camping. Even if you'd like me to keep the ice cream sauce to myself, thanks. Even if the professional knowledge can damn well stay professional." 

His eyes darken, softly.

"Honestly, I... think about you a lot. That night at my flat. Been a while for me." He brushes his toes quietly along the side of Mycroft's ankle. "You're all seven shades of gorgeous. I mean it. I feel - relaxed with you. In all things, not just..."

 

*

 

_ Yes. _

Mycroft is reasonably certain he’s never agreed so fervently with anything in his life.

“I confess a similar… fond preoccupation, Greg. I have wondered what it might be like to have you… with me, at night, just to watch something, or speak in person instead of texting….”

He turns his foot into Greg’s touch, reciprocating as best he can in shoes and hidden under a tablecloth. 

“I don’t meet many people I feel I can trust right away- and most of the people I do trust, it’s because I know them well enough to tell when they’re lying. I haven’t- had any such concerns with you.”

Mycroft smiles, almost a bit shy on this more honest topic.

“In truth, I don’t invite many people to my home at all… it can be rather quiet,”  _ lonely, really, _ “but there’s…”  _ How much to say that won’t have Anthea irritated with me later?  _ “Security concerns. I essentially have to have visitors… pre-approved.”  _ Or my PA may shoot them.  _

“I added you to the list after Anthea dragged me out of your flat.” 

 

*

 

Greg's heart heaves. 

It might be the wine; it might be the candlelight. It might be the fact he said that word, that miserably bloody word,  _ 'divorce', _ and Mycroft listened to it without a blink. It might be the fact that when they're finished here, there'll be a walk through the darkness to a place he's never been before - but he already wants to go back.

It might be the fact he understands, entirely.

Right now, it feels like Marmalade sat them next to each other and that was that - all sorted. Easy as breathing. He can't think of any two people with more reason to distrust humanity than a politician and a police officer, but... there's something reassuring in that. 

_ You know what people can be like. I know what people can be like. _

_ We know it's rare just to... get on. _

Wine eases the thickness in Greg's throat. 

He picks up his last piece of duck with his fork, and puts it on Mycroft's plate.

"Listen... I..." 

It's terrifying to say; he can't  _ not _ say it. He needs Mycroft to know it. He could cripple himself playing cool, guarding it, pretending that he's twenty and he's not got scars that can be seen from space - or he can believe these are the first weeks of his second chance at happiness. 

"I... f-fall fast. Hard." His throat tightens again; he keeps hold of Mycroft's eyes. "I'm not good at... messing around. 'Specially now. I really like you, and it's - f-frankly amazing you trust me. I get how much that means. And I trust you, too."

He wants to reach for Mycroft's hand. It's going to be hard not to touch, walking home together. It's going to be hard to say goodbye tomorrow.

"Almost feel like I've known you years," he finishes, with a nervous smile. 

Hope aches in his deep brown gaze.

 

*

 

‘Messing around’ was once Mycroft’s forte. Casual liaisons, never making it quite to the relationship stage, if they made it to anything that could be classed as ‘dating’ at all. There were probably a few MI-6 agents still out on long rotations who thought they might get a leg over with Mycroft on their return, because  _ they _ weren’t in a position to have a relationship either and lord knows he never thought he would be.

It feels like any memories of those men are turning to dust in his head.

Looking into Greg’s eyes, all he can think is  _ I will protect you. _

“I won’t mess around with you, Greg.” Mycroft trades his remaining lamb for the piece of duck Greg has offered him. “It’s… this is serious. And it doesn’t matter  _ why _ , to me- an auspicious cat- who we probably owe quite a lot of treats to- or-”  _ a sudden idea of what someone meant when they coined the term soulmates _ “-fate. This just feels very… right.”

Mycroft wants Greg in his home, in his bed- not only for sex, but because he knows Greg will be safe there, and he’s certain he has to make Greg feel safe until whatever hurts linger in his past are entirely forgotten. 

_ I wonder if this is the impulse that made ancient men drag their mates into caves. _

Blue eyes reflect warmth back at Greg, and every ounce of protective shielding Mycroft has. 

_ Let me keep you safe. _

 

*

 

_ 'This just feels very... right.'  _

Greg's heart thunders quietly against the front wall of his chest. It does feel right. It feels right in a way previous relationships haven't for him, and hearing Mycroft say it makes it real. Greg's felt chemistry before - he's felt sparks before - he's never felt it wrapped in trust and honesty like this. 

His eyes crinkle; his smile comes from the soul. "I - know what you mean. M'glad you think so, too."

_ Jesus, look at you... this is our third date.  _

_ This is how it feels just at the start.  _

He picks up Mycroft's lamb shyly with his fork. It tastes amazing, and he finishes the last of his wine to wash it down. 

"Hey," he murmurs. "If you - want to take dessert to go... I don't mean so I can do depraved things to it on the walk back. Thinking we can have it in your film room, maybe. Just the two of us. Get cosy."

It's not something he thinks he can voice in public, but he wants to cuddle. The idea of being able to hold Mycroft, stroke his hair, kiss him somewhere quiet and talk about whatever they want, makes him feel a little drunk with happiness. 

It's been an amazing night so far - Greg wants the rest of it to start.


	13. Chapter 13

“I think that’s an excellent plan.” 

Mycroft signals the waiter, offers a quick word- in English this time- and his credit card, and soon enough the desserts arrive neatly boxed up and bagged.

“Can’t even see into the boxes- I suppose that will assist in quelling your praline-induced depravity.”

They walk out into the night, Mycroft leading and sneaking pleased, warm looks at Greg from time to time, until they round a corner onto a street with a long row of identical looking white townhouses. He takes Greg’s hand- this is his territory, now, and he doesn’t care who’s watching.  _ Might as well wave to Anthea on the monitors. _

“Boring exteriors- they’re all lovely inside, of course, but they’re meant to blend together to dissuade robberies and the like.”  _ Or attempted murders.  _ He doesn’t mention that the houses on either side of his own are security services owned and occasionally used as safehouses. 

His exterior lock is keycoded- no key. “We change the code every so often… I hope you like memorizing numbers, Greg. I try to keep them interesting” The interior door takes a key. Mycroft tries to act like this is a perfectly normal scenario even though it obviously isn’t.

The first floor is very formal- very  _ political visitors welcome _ , all leather-bound books along the wall, a piano in the corner, high backed formal seating. 

“I don’t spend much time down here, to be honest, but to start your tour- sitting room, coat closet. There’s a washroom in the back.”

 

*

 

_ Mycroft's street. Mycroft's house. _

_ Mycroft's reception rooms. _

It makes Greg smile as he looks around. This is the threatening suit, he thinks - a softer version of it - this is where people who've come for Mycroft's power, not Mycroft, are entertained. This is as far into his heart as they're allowed.

Greg doesn't imagine he'll be spending a lot of time in these rooms, either.

"Don't remember the last time I saw a private house with a piano in it... my aunt and uncle had one in their front room for show. I never saw it used. She made sure it was visible through the nets, though."

Smiling, he casts his eye across the leather-bound books on the walls.

"I bet my head would spin if you told me the kind of people you've spoken to in here... you're not even allowed to name them, right?" 

 

*

 

“Perhaps not all of them,” Mycroft says idly, eyes sparkling.

Up to the second floor- this bears more signs of life. A dining room, the kitchen- a very nice kitchen, very new and modern and remarkably clean in a way that almost suggest Mycroft may not actually use it for cooking, other than the high-end blender on the counter. 

There’s another door past it that looks oddly like a fireproof steel sort, just painted to blend in with the rest of the house, that Mycroft gives a brief, uncertain look to before marching past it.

The highlight, of course, is the cinema room. It looks like it was meant to be a lounge of some sort, there’s a built-in bar along one wall with a popcorn machine on it and a stock of liquor along with an array of appropriate glassware for each type. The projector is wall-mounted, the screen opposite as good as a small arthouse cinema’s.

There’s also an armchair and a sofa, both very plush looking, and small tables on which snacks likely go.

“So, would you like to see the rest now, or have you been successfully enticed to the couch by the promise of imminent dessert?”

 

*

 

The second Greg steps into the cinema room, he laughs with delight. His whole face opens as he looks around in wonder.

_ "Christ, _ this is amazing - look at this place...! How do you ever bring yourself to leave the house? Jesus, Mycroft..." 

He turns to Mycroft, beaming.

"How can you ask me that?" The urge to pull Mycroft into his arms just to hug him is overwhelming. His eyes dance in the low light. "I want both. This place is amazing -  _ seriously. _ I want to see all of it  _ and _ stay right here. How d'we do that?"

 

*

 

“What if I acquire some forks and we call this a mere pause in the tour. I fear I may get too jealous if you are overcome and start ravishing your praline in my bedroom.”

He smiles as he meanders back to the kitchen and returns with forks and small plates.

“Would you like to watch anything while we eat?” 

His collection is on the wall- a wide selection of classic films, as well as some more modern selections including perhaps more genre options than would be expected, particularly science fiction, fantasy, and mysteries. 

 

*

 

Greg is admiring the collection when Mycroft returns with forks; he's already spotted several things he's been meaning to watch for years. If Mycroft ever gets bored in an evening, and wants someone to come watch a film with him, Greg will be round in a heartbeat.

"Sure. Been a while since I saw Citizen Kane... or - something else? I'm up for anything, really. It's just cool to be here."

He's already spotted the blanket laid out on the couch - and any film in the world will be fantastic to watch, settled there with Mycroft in the dark. 

 

*

 

“Citizen Kane is a good choice.”

Mycroft sets out the plates and lets Greg sort the desserts while he puts in the film, returning to the couch and slipping his shoes and coat off before he covers himself in the blanket. It’s obvious he’s a huddle-in-the-blanket sort, though it’s not a side very many people have seen- with it being a larger blanket he usually wraps the entire length about himself and marches back and forth to the kitchen with it draped like a cape, but he’s being generous and allowing space for Greg to fit under it with him.

There’s a lighting remote on one of the tables, and he dims them as the movie starts, eyes a little mischievous as he sneaks a look beside him. 

“Shall I turn the lights all the way off so you can deflower your chocolate in private?”

 

*

 

Greg grins, settling himself on the couch beside Mycroft. His shoes slip off easily, and his coat's already lying across the empty armchair. As he sneaks under the blanket with Mycroft, pulling it up around them, he wonders how this evening could possibly get any better. 

He then reaches for his dessert bowl.

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?" he says, his eyes bright. The first spoonful of chocolate praline skips his brain for a second. "O-Okay, that  _ is _ good. Turn the lights off."

 

*

 

Mycroft chuckles and clicks the lights off. “I find it endearing. But if I hear moaning I  _ will _ need to check the location of your hands,” he adds with a sly smile.

His own selection of small pastries is laid out delicately, but he’s really only planning on eating one- the rest will go in the fridge whenever he feels like getting up again, which doesn’t seem likely to be soon.

He lets his body fall mostly against the armrest, his legs nesting easily against Greg’s, sharing the cozy warmth. The wine is still pleasantly warm in his veins, but it’s not so bad that he fears he might fall asleep.

_ Just comfortable, that’s all. _

 

*

 

Greg cleans his bowl out. He resists scooping his tongue around it, choosing instead the more polite route of retrieving the chocolate smudges with his thumb, then cleaning them off that way. The stuff is amazing. It keeps him quiet for the first part of the film, then as he places the bowl carefully on the table, he uses it as an excuse to shuffle slightly closer to Mycroft. 

It's not quite a yawn and a stretched arm along the back of the sofa - but he knows it's close enough. He gives Mycroft a quiet grin in the darkness. 

"You okay?" he asks - he slips his hands gently under Mycroft's feet, lifting them onto his lap. He begins to rub them through his socks. 

 

*

 

Mycroft lets out a low, contented noise from the back of his throat.

_ Lord, he gives footrubs too. _

“Quite.” 

It’s not quite a moan, but it’s close. He’s extremely, dangerously comfortable. If he grows any more satisfied he’s liable to simply melt through the couch.

Only his smiling attention on Greg- he’s not minding the movie much, he’s seen it enough times that he doesn’t need to- keeps him grounded. Watching Greg’s grin, the glint of his eye catching the reflection of light from the screen.

“This is a useful skill you’ve just revealed, Greg. You have-” his breath hitches as Greg’s thumb hits a spot of tension “-very lovely hands.”

 

*

 

"Mm hmm? Good to know..." Greg focuses the circling of his thumb on the sensitive spot he's just found, easing it carefully round on round. The truth is he'd sit here all night rubbing Mycroft's feet for him - every night, if he asked. It almost seems like the least he can do. 

This feels like the kind of comfort with each other that comes after months, not weeks - certainly not days.

Greg rests his head against the back of the sofa, his body now turned towards Mycroft slightly. His eyes shine; peace has settled over his face.

"Have to give you a back rub sometime," he murmurs. "Get some proper oil... see if I can relax you after work. If the back rub doesn't work, I'll think of something else."

He winks.

 

*

 

“Nnnnhng.” 

This is it. Mycroft is melting into a puddle of Holmes-shaped goo in Greg’s hands and he is unlikely to recover. A funeral may as well be held for the so-called Iceman now, because Mycroft isn’t sure he’ll be located again.

Part of it may be that he is unused to getting massages at all- that requires a certain amount of trust in service personnel that his position does not afford, except for the extremely clinical staff provided by the security services when something closer to physical therapy is required.

He suspects, however, that most of it is caused simply by being able to fully relax with Greg.

“You have,” he forces himself to focus on speaking, and not on how wonderful Greg’s hands feel, “a bit of a scoundrel in you, Inspector Lestrade.”

“I think I rather like it.”

 

*

 

Greg laughs.

"Not sure I can deny that..." he says, rubbing Mycroft's arches with gentle, careful pressure. "He's an old and knackered scoundrel, maybe, but still a scoundrel. Nice to let him out for once."

He lets them settle back into the film. 

It's not hard to keep up tending to Mycroft's feet - the motion is almost instinctive, slow and soothing, and doesn't distract from the film in the least. Greg makes it for the better part of an hour before the lazy rubbing movement starts to edge his mind with the very first hint of sleep. It's relaxing him just to do this. Combined with the evening's wine, the low lights and the blanket drawn around them, he decides a quick stretch is needed.

He leans over to Mycroft, kisses his head carefully, and murmurs,

"Just heading for the bathroom. Won't be a minute."

As he makes his way through the house, he can almost imagine Anthea watching him on the cameras he's certain are concealed somewhere - checking he's not taking the chance to go looking for government secrets to sell. He can't imagine how many headaches are caused each year by politicians trusting people they shouldn't.

Luckily, he'd rather pitch himself off the roof than put Mycroft in that position. There's no money in the world he could be offered to spoil this. 

He heads straight for the bathroom. There, as he's washing his hands, he runs cold water over his wrists for a while to wake himself up. He scruffs his hair back, lets the light fill his eyes for a minute, and returns to the film room a little brighter than he left it.

He grins as he sneaks himself back under the blanket, settling close to Mycroft in the dark.

"You okay?" he murmurs, decides just to go for it, and slips an arm around Mycroft's shoulders. His heart glows with immediate warmth. "Think I've maybe reached 'cuddly drunk'..."

 

*

 

While Greg is in the bathroom, Mycroft forces himself out of his extremely comfortable position- he must have almost nodded off nearly five times, and passing out now would ruin the somewhat more adventurous plan he has for the evening.

Not that it would be the worst fate, quietly tilting off to sleep in Greg’s arms, he just didn’t think he’d be doing it quite so early.

_ Getting too old to be a rascal all the time, Holmes. _

He stretches, rises, and gets the rest of his pastries into the fridge, then fills two glasses of ice water and brings those back to the couch, drinking to flood his system with a bit of chill as well as try to counteract the wine.

“Acquired some water,” he starts, but then Greg’s arm is around him and he has to resist the urge to immediately melt once more, or crawl directly into Greg’s lap like a child in need of affection, simply humming in immediate contentment.

He turns his face in, his cheek to Greg’s chest, an inhale catching all the wonderful traces of scent tucked just below that luscious shirt- deodorant, aftershave, a tiny hint of citrus that was either a very light cologne or the result of catching a few droplets of lemon when Mycroft drizzled them over his oysters. 

_ Lovely.  _

His own arm slips low behind Greg, around his back, hand hooking about his hip on the other side. 

_ You can hold me. Hold me and I’ll hold you. _

“I usually hit ‘utter slattern’ first, but cuddly drunk is nice as well. And you are rather comfortable….”

 

*

 

As Mycroft settles against him, and their arms wrap into place around each other, Greg inhales. The rush of contentment soaks through him in a wave.  _ This,  _ he thinks.  _ This is what I needed.  _

He presses his lips to Mycroft's head, closing his eyes.  _ What we needed. _

They fit together perfectly - like the couch was made around them, measured and fitted in preparation for this moment, for Greg to be here with Mycroft cuddled against his chest. He hasn't felt this proud in years. He strokes the hair back from Mycroft's forehead with his fingertips, this little central curl he thinks he might just be falling in love with.

He smiles, as he murmurs against Mycroft's hair.

"I somehow missed 'utter slattern'? Shame..." He strokes his thumb along the nape of Mycroft's neck, just lifting the very shortest of his hair. "S'pose we can always get you a shot or two, if we need... stoke you back up. So long as we don't tip you into snoring drunk."

 

*

 

“Mm, that is the risk, isn’t it.”

_ I hope I’m not a snoring drunk. No one’s ever said- not that actual sleeping with anyone has been a frequent occurrence- more oft running back off to one’s own hotel room or home, alone. _

These little touches are wonderful, comfortable and relaxing. Mycroft fears he may be hopelessly addicted to them before the night is over.

_ His ex is an ever greater idiot than I’d imagined, for giving this up. _

Mycroft nuzzles his cheek against Greg’s chest and lets his hand fall on Greg’s knee, tracing idle little circles that drift just little higher on his thigh with each pass.

“I suppose I could find him for you. My slattern friend. If you like.”

 

*

 

_ Christ.  _ Those little, lazy circles. These trousers aren't thin, but they certainly aren't thick. Greg can feel the warmth of Mycroft's fingertips through them, the delicacy of touch that he's missed, and it's all he can do not to pull Mycroft onto his lap at once.

"Mm hmm?" he hums, letting his fingers graze over Mycroft's collar. "He's in there somewhere, is he?" 

Gently down between Mycroft's shoulder blades, he follows the graceful curve of his spine with a long and careful stroke - light, almost questioning, tracing all the way down until he feels a waistband. There he eases to a halt, and redraws the line slowly back up. 

"Missed you," he mumbles, kissing Mycroft's temple gently. "Missed - this. I know we've only - the once... I've just thought about it a lot since." He smiles, hesitant. "Nice just to touch."

 

*

 

Greg’s fingers, that brush of lips against Mycroft’s temple, elicit a small shudder. He leans into it, still contented and warm but his nerves beginning to steadily light back up with awareness and the outer edge of  _ want. _

_ Keep that up and I’ll be able to locate him a lot sooner. _

Mycroft hums an agreement. “I’ve enjoyed picturing you here, watching something with me… could even put one of your sports up, sometime, when you’re here.”

His fingers around Greg’s hip begin to press in, tracing the line of the bone into the edge of the dip made by his thigh.

“I’m beginning to get the feeling you’re no longer watching this film, Greg.”

 

*

 

Greg huffs softly. Citizen Kane's an old favourite; seeing it like this is amazing. 

It's still not enough to distract him from Mycroft. This sort of casual touching, easy as falling rain - hands that not only want him, but feel comfortable enough to rest on him - he'd almost forgotten it existed. He forgot it's supposed to feel like this. 

Winding his fingertips down Mycroft's back once more, taking his time to follow and enjoy the natural slope of his spine, Greg murmurs,

"D'you want me to hush?"

 

*

 

“Not a bit.”

Mycroft lifts his hand so just the very edge of his fingertip is touching, then draws it from Greg’s knee all the way up to his hip and back down in a slow and deliberate path.

He nuzzles once more against Greg’s chest and tilts his head to look up, eyes glinting with mischief. 

“I’m merely noting…” his finger twirls a figure eight-  _ infinity _ \- across the top of Greg’s thigh, “...that you seem a bit distracted.”

 

*

 

_ Fuck me up.  _

There's a look Greg won't forget. 

_ How the hell have I only known you two weeks? How's that even possible?  _ Surely there are photo albums somewhere - all the places they've been, all the memories they've shared. They've had a million conversations, spent months sitting here cosily watching a film, woken up with each other a thousand times.

_ Third date. _

Quietly, Greg reaches out.

He cups Mycroft's face in one hand, and looks down at him as he traces a thumb over Mycroft's cheek. Gentle wonder fills his eyes. 

"Can I kiss you?" he asks, softly. He presses his teeth against the edge of his lip. "I've - wanted to all night."

 

*

 

Mycroft wonders, vaguely, what era of chivalric fashion Greg fell out of that he can be comfortably nestled on a couch with a man he’s seen naked and still refrain from taking liberties, even for a simple kiss. It might be the wine, but now all he can picture is shining armor, perhaps a flowing banner for noble Sir Gregory fluttering in the breeze.

_ Could have a great deal more than a kiss, if you wanted. _

He reaches up and twists his hand into Greg’s shirt, leveraging himself closer. A little tilt, and he brushes his lips light as air over Greg’s chin until they almost meet. It’s close enough to feel the heat of his breath as they look in each other’s eyes.

“Of course you can.” 

His nose nudges against Greg’s, encouraging.

“I want you to.”

 

*

 

Greg shivers, slowly. It's audible in his breath; it swells his pupils a little. Something about nose nuzzles, something about  _ 'I want you to'...  _ Mycroft seems to know what he needs, even before Greg knows. He feels like he's being healed, gently, one moment at a time.

His hands find Mycroft's waist beneath the blanket.  _ Oh god, you're warm...  _ warm skin under clothing. He wants to feel warm skin against his own, the two of them wrapped up together in sheets, and it feels like it's about to start.

Breath held, Greg gazes for a moment into those eyes. 

_ You don't even know. You don't know how special you are. _

_ Fuck. _

_ I need to show you. _

His own eyes close. As careful as if Mycroft is a butterfly who might take wing at any moment, Greg leans in. He lets their lips brush, once - then softly twice, a little longer - a third time, gently sealing, and his hands wrap themselves around Mycroft's back. 

The instinct to pull Mycroft onto his lap makes him shake, but he eases it into the gentlest nudge - a soft,  _ if you wanted  _ \- a murmuring touch, not a demand -  _ my lap's empty.  _

_ You could be there, maybe. We could have that. _

Wine, pastry and praline are long gone; Mycroft's lips taste of candlelight.

 

*

 

_ So gentle. _

Greg is so warm, so kind- not timid, exactly, but patient. Mycroft feels he has to match it, at least to start, soft and fond as their lips meet.

The assertive, sensual side of him is steadily waking up, however, uncoiling from its comfortable rest in Greg’s arms. He can read the signs of  _ want  _ in Greg’s body- the little shudder in his touch, the pull that isn’t a pull but speaks of buried urgency, and that reptilian part of Mycroft starts to whisper in flutters within his core.

He brings his hands up to cup Greg’s cheeks, his fingertips venturing into argent hair as he shifts to Greg’s lap. It feels like he belongs there, like their curves and edges fit perfectly together.

_ Look how beautiful you are. _

_ Let me show you how I see you. _

One hand reaches behind Greg’s head, drifting across his shortest hairs until he reaches a section long enough to wrap his own fingers, not pulling but caressing, like each strand is a fine treasure to be cherished.

 

*

 

_ Yes -  _

_ Yes, yes - god, yes... _

Greg's arms tighten gently around the glorious man now settling on his lap. His chest aches as Mycroft's fingers slide through his hair. It shouldn't feel so keenly, shockingly, breathlessly  _ good  _ just to be stroked this way, but it does. They have the whole night here together: no interruptions, no trouble, no outside world - there's no need to rush. 

Greg wants to explore. 

He wants to learn Mycroft's body, place-by-place. Kissing like this already feels incredible - slowly, softly, just opening now to the first flash of tongues. He stifles a quiet groan against Mycroft's mouth as their bodies press, and runs his careful hands along Mycroft's thighs. They glide from knee to hip and back again, endlessly slow. The warmth that curls through Greg's abdomen in response is overwhelming. 

Mycroft is  _ gorgeous.  _ He's glorious in his pretty suit, here under a blanket with Greg, and the soft interplay of their mouths is melting Greg's mind into nothing.

_ Too dressed. Too many layers. _

They're home now. Some of these can come off now. Greg stirs, and on his next upward stroke of his hands he lets them slide onto Mycroft's waist and around to the front of his body, roaming higher in search of unnecessary buttons to deal with. 

_ Let's get cosy, darlin'. Let's rediscover. _


	14. Chapter 14

Mycroft hums his approval against Greg’s lips as he feels the buttons of his waistcoat opening, running his fingers down his neck, along the top of his spine and back up into his hair. His other hand finds Greg’s tie and weaves his fingers into it, undoing the knot and letting the fabric slip away so he can start a slow, steady, one-handed progression on the buttons underneath.

When his waistcoat is open he lets Greg help slide it from his shoulders. It vanishes somewhere into the dark depths of the blanket- no matter, he can find it and have it pressed later.

_ Touch wherever you like. Everywhere you like. _

There’s a difference in it Mycroft hadn’t expected, this sort of  _ learning _ touch, not just the passion of seeking one night of release and the speedy, panting assessment of another body that comes with that and leaves only hazy memories in its wake. This feels like Greg wants to memorize him, wants to study him not just for a night but for ages, learn the points he’ll come back to. 

_ I’ll learn you too, lovely, ever bit. You can show me how. _

He feels the demanding coil within him unfurl a little more at the thought of  _ more _ , of  _ frequency, _ of getting to that precious point with a partner where he can unravel Greg with a touch.

_ Once a week will be too little, won’t it? _

Mycroft will get him a key. Get him the keycode. The idea that he could come home and find Greg, shirt unbuttoned, watching rugby on his projector is almost enough to stall his breath.

_ And he said he fell quickly. I might as well find a second toothbrush and a spare drawer. _

He sighs in satisfaction when Greg undoes his tie.

_ Can’t wait to have your hands on me. On my skin. _

 

*

 

Greg's first soft groan comes as Mycroft helps him with the waistcoat. The thing possibly costs more than Greg's entire suit, but it's discarded like it doesn't matter at all - like skin matters more. The kiss deepens, roughens just a little, air growing short between the stroke of their mouths, and Greg slides Mycroft's tie apart with care. 

He can feel his shirt buttons coming undone. It makes his heart pound, all his body heat rising to the surface of his skin in hope of being released.

_ Fuck... I want to go to bed... I want to lie down with you. I want you.  _

_ I need to make you understand. _

Greg slips the tie away, lets it fall somewhere, and starts on Mycroft's collar. 

He intends to take the shirt buttons to the bottom, ease it back from Mycroft's shoulders and pull him close - but after five buttons, the thought of Mycroft's now bare neck and collarbones is too much to cope with. 

He breaks the kiss, his breath tight, and dips his head at once beneath Mycroft's chin.

_ Fuck, fuck...  _ Mycroft's neck is perfect - warm, fragile skin, soft as cream under his mouth - and his natural scent is strongest here. It soaks Greg to the soul, drenched in it as he breathes and his hands roam Mycroft's back, scrunching in his shirt, shivering.  _ Want you... I want you. Want your sounds. Missed you. Want to hear you. Want you so much. _

His cock's already aching inside his trousers. As he laves his tongue across the join of Mycroft's collarbones, pressing closer, he gives a second breathy groan.

 

*

 

_ Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck yes. _

Mycroft doesn’t have to restrain his groan as Greg’s mouth finds his neck- it’s his house, he can be as loud as he pleases. 

The matter isn’t helped when he feels the press of hardness under his thigh, hears the delicious sound of Greg’s groan, hot against the base of his throat.  _ Want you. You want me too. _ The coil of his imperative side finishes unfurling and begins demanding in a low whisper at the back of his mind.  _ Need to have you. _

“Greg,” he exhales in a needy sigh. “We didn’t finish that tour. Think I should like to show you the bedroom. Now.”

His own cock pulses at the thought- Greg, naked, wrapped up in his sheets- the knowledge that it’s almost a reality makes him shudder. He rubs his cheek along that lovely silver hair, delighting in it.  _ I want to wake up smelling like you. Want you to mark me somewhere I’ll feel it. _

He twists his hand in Greg’s hair, gently pulling him back and kissing him rather hard. His pupils are blown black as he eases off the couch, even though he doesn’t really want to break the contact. He offers his hand to help Greg up, leading him up the stairs with a slightly urgent pace.

“Guest room,” he mutters at the first door they pass- it’s not important, nothing is important except- “Mine.” The bedroom is fairly sized, but not overly extravagant. The bed itself, however, is all dark wood framing and a wide, expansive mattress. “Bathroom,” he dismissively waves at the other pertinent door to be aware of.

He wraps his hands in Greg’s shirt and kisses him fiercely again, nipping at his lower lip and backing him toward the bed.

“I want you, Greg. Need you.”

 

*

  
  


_ Oh fuck, you're loud - fuck - fuck, yes, be loud -  _

_ Fuck - pull my hair -  _

_ Yours -  _

Greg doesn't notice a thing about the house. At some point they're heading upwards, and he assumes there are stairs under his feet. He doesn't care, though. He can't take his eyes off Mycroft. He doesn't want to be out of contact with Mycroft's skin for even a second. 

The bedroom feels dark and cosy, and the bed is big - it's all they need. He'll admire the place in the morning when he can think. Right now he wants to feel. 

As Mycroft walks him backwards towards the bed, Greg's stomach lurches.

"F-" he manages, before the ferocious kiss wrenches the word into a muffled groan. His knees hit the edge of the bed and he drops, and before he can even draw breath, Mycroft's on top of him.  _ Fuck. Yes -  _

Greg arches, panting into Mycroft's mouth. He drives both hands up beneath his shirt, shaking with a moan as his palms glide across the soft, smooth, gorgeous skin he's wanted for days, aching over Mycroft's sides and his back. 

_ Oh, god. Want you. Want to stroke you like this while we fuck. _

_ Fuck, I want - oh, fuck - kiss and fuck -  _

_ God, don't let me go -  _

 

*

 

_ Oh, fuck, moan for me _ -

Greg’s touching him, and Mycroft sheds his shirt- he has to, has to have Greg’s hands on him- he doesn’t know where it ends up, nor does he care, he’ll find it later. 

_ Touch me, touch wherever you like. _

He traces his hand along Greg’s chest, looking for any wayward buttons he’d missed in the flickering dark of the couch. The remainder sorted, he pulls it open and, with a fervent press to Greg’s lips, slides his own mouth to Greg’s neck, meandering it from ear to nape with kisses and drags of his teeth and tongue.

His hand finds its way back to Greg’s hair- can’t seem to leave it, really- it’s the perfect length, perfect color- perfect way Greg responds when he tugs it.

_ Want you, I want you. _

The feeling of Greg arching, shuddering, moaning under him is intoxicating. 

He’s never felt more powerful.

_ Mine- my Greg, my bed-  _

_ These lovely sounds you make, all mine- _

 

*

 

It's impossible to stay quiet. The feeling of Mycroft pulling his shirt open, descending on his neck and tugging at his hair combines to drive Greg's pulse into a frenzy, and there isn't the space between them for nerves or worry or thought. He's longed for this since the moment Mycroft left his flat. He's wanted to remind himself it was real - it really happened, it really felt like this - this gorgeous man  _ really  _ wanted him, wanted  _ everything  _ from him, and for a little while they had everything. 

Now Mycroft's kissing at his neck, biting, licking, and Greg can't keep it in. 

He belongs to Mycroft right now. He'll belong to Mycroft all through the night. Tight, gasping groans leave him as he breathes. It's several moments before he even realises it's words.

"F-Fuck - fuck, please - fuck, just - oh  _ fuck... _ do anything to me - do anything. Do  _ anything, _ I want it - "

The catch of Mycroft's trousers feels like far too delicate a fastening for his fingers right now, but he can't wait. As he twists at the clasp with one hand, he works the other between them and cups Mycroft firmly, gripping, rubbing this gorgeous cock he's spent nearly two weeks desperate to get hold of. What Mycroft's doing to his neck feels so good he screws his head back against the bed for more, his chin high, mouth open and panting, his pulse thundering beneath Mycroft's lips.

"Bite me," he whimpers, as he grips and squeezes at Mycroft's cock through the fabric. The fastening's still defying him. He can't concentrate. "Bite me, Mycroft, please - oh,  _ s-shit - " _

 

*

 

_ Fuck.  _

_ “Bite me, Mycroft.” _ That sweet whimper is going to be playing in his mind for quite a long time- he might not be able to go back to work on Monday, it will be too fresh, he’ll just have to lock the door until he can stop thinking about it, bring himself back into bed and-

“Want me to mark you?” he growls low  in Greg’s ear. “Leave a reminder for you?”

He takes the groans, the rutting of Greg’s palm against his cock as a yes.

His teeth find purchase- he doesn’t have to be gentle, apparently, so he isn’t- and he sucks.

_ Mine.  _

Greg’s hand against his cock is deliciously needy, but Mycroft worries for his own stamina against such desperate attentions. He snakes his hands lower and finds Greg’s wrists, then draws them both up and over his head, where he pins them as he gracefully shifts to the other side of this lovely, pliant neck.

“You’ll get your turn, Greg,” he breathes between his lavishing attentions, “but I’m not done.”

“Tell me again. Anything?”

 

*

 

Greg's entire body burns as Mycroft marks him. He's only half aware of the cry that shakes itself from his throat, the arching of his back, the heaving of his chest. As the sensation subsides, he breaks into almost frantic panting. 

_ Oh fuck. More.  _

It's not pain; it's Mycroft. It's belonging to Mycroft. He'll have the mark into next week. Every time he looks in the mirror,  _ Mycroft -  _ every time he runs his fingers over it,  _ Mycroft. _

The sound that leaves him as he's pinned is a sound he's never made before. His hands flex, and a tremor shudders its way down his arms. He digs his teeth into his lower lip. He's about to rip his trousers in two along the zip, and the pulse of his confined cock is desperately good.

"A-Anything," he pants. The muscles squeeze in his throat as he swallows. "Anything, just -  _ y-you...  _ oh fuck, anything - "

 

*

 

Mycroft hums approvingly, his teeth delicately pulling on Greg’s earlobe, and works his way lower, rotating soft kisses and harder bites from Greg’s clavicle to his nipples, only releasing Greg’s wrists when he can no longer reach them easily. He runs his hands over soft skin, caressing down to Greg’s hips, where he opens the clasp first on his own trousers, then on Greg’s.

A low moan escapes him when he feels how hard Greg is for him, how  _ eager. _ He mouths over Greg’s hip, very, very slowly and deliberately pulling open his zipper- drawing it out simply because he can.

They have all night.

Mycroft intends to use it.

_ Going to make you make that noise again, before I’m done. _

“Another, do you think?” He licks the line of the bone, selects a soft, supple point just beside it. “Here, maybe?” His lips close over the spot and he begins to suck again.

_ Mark you all over, if I could. _

 

*

 

Greg's wrists stay right where Mycroft leaves them. His moans are soft and restless as Mycroft descends his body. Somewhere in the whirl of his thoughts, he's glad he didn't drink any more than he did - his self-control is under threat enough as it is. His erection  _ aches  _ as Mycroft unzips him, and the slight relief from the loosened fabric lasts for all of a second.

As Mycroft sucks at his hip, marking the sensitive little spot as his own, Greg's hips jerk. He throws his head back, digs his teeth into his lip and turns his wrists to bury his hands in the bed-covers, gripping them tightly to stop himself howling. He doesn't even remember anyone touching him there before, kissing him there - now Mycroft's marking him there. His cock pulses with a searing urgency as he pants. Desperation edges his breaths into sobs.

_ "Fuck...!" _ The whimper is a plea: a plea for mercy, a plea for more. Greg's hips lift towards his mouth. "F-Fuck - fuck Mycroft, please - please, just - "

 

*

 

_ Good lord, you are perfect. _

Mycroft draws back, lifting his head so he can watch Greg’s face, hooking his fingers over Greg’s trousers and pants and pulling them over that gorgeous, steel-hard cock. “Do you know what it does to me when you bite. Your lip. Like that. Greg?”

“You do it inordinately often. It gives me very  _ wicked _ thoughts, Greg.” He continues to lower the trousers and everything underneath, torturously slow, though the sound of ‘ _ please _ ’ has made his own cock pulse with need. It’s easier to focus like this, without taking his own pleasure into account yet. Otherwise he might be the one begging.

The trousers and the rest slide over Greg’s ankles and off, abandoned to the floor. A groan escapes him at the sight- Greg’s luscious, naked legs, almost shaking, his hands exactly where Mycroft left them. “Oh, aren’t you good for me. So well behaved.”

His hands find purchase on Greg’s hips, and he nestles in between his newly bared thighs, nuzzling his cheek, then his parted lips over the treasure he finds there. “So good….”

Tongue flicking out, he begins to reacquaint himself with Greg’s cock in wet, sloppy kisses.

 

*

 

Greg watches his clothing come down, big-eyed and breathless, trembling a little as his cock slips free of its restraints. He’s not in any way surprised to find he’s leaking pre-come already, damp and eager. 

This is getting almost revelatory. 

_‘Well-behaved’_ is met with a whimper, Greg’s eyes briefly closing as he fists at the sheets. _Definitely_ revelatory. He’s been naked with lovers before, naked with Mycroft before - but not naked like this. He’s aware of every inch of his bare body. All of his skin tingles softly for touch. The longing to _be_ _good_ for Mycroft both startles and thrills him, and he has a feeling he’s not going to leave this bed quite the same person as he entered it. 

He’s going to have to go to work on Monday. He's going to have to sit there at the desk with the knowledge he’s  _ well-behaved, _ wearing his lover’s bites at hip and throat. No amount of self-control is going to stop him getting hard again at the memory. 

Mycroft's mouthing at his cock, and the sounds are so gorgeously audible and wet that Greg responds automatically with his own - breathless moans of enjoyment, tight in his throat. His stomach quivers with each new stroke of Mycroft’s mouth. His thighs spread apart a little more, trying to ease the pressure he can feel building already in his balls.  _ Christ, don’t let me come from two bites and five seconds of kissing my cock...  _

That sight, though: gazing down the bed to watch Mycroft just slowly kissing him, too light, too gentle, the tip of his cock shining wetly with hope. He wants this more than he can handle. 

"Y-You’re..." Greg swallows. "Y-You look - ..." 

There’s no way to put this into words. Mycroft is so appealing that it hurts.

Greg realises this bit is about receiving, feeling,  _ remembering, _ giving his body back to the man he wants to be its rightful keeper. He’s not just being offered pleasure. It feels like it’s being  _ demanded  _ from him, and the thought that his enjoyment is a coveted thing sets off tiny explosions in his head and his heart that make his chest heave. He wants to touch his lover.

Nervously he lowers a hand. 

The touch is light - tentative - not the back of Mycroft’s head but the side, just behind his ear. 

Greg’s fingers brush his hair with timid hope. 

 

*

 

_ I shall be eternally grateful, on both our behalves, how isolated in sound they made these homes. _

He can be loud. Greg can be loud. It’s a beautiful symphony that can’t be heard through a wall, or through a window out to the street.

_ Going to have to confiscate anything Anthea’s monitors have picked up, of course. Possibly for personal enjoyment…. _

Mycroft hums around Greg’s cock, but then he recalls the way Greg has asked for permission, his  _ Can I touch  _ and  _ Can I kiss  _ and he pulls back far enough to speak, his breath puffing warm air along the cock he’s tending.

“Grab it if you want, Greg. You can pull…” he runs his hands up, over Greg’s belly, gently stroking. 

“You can guide me.”

He sweeps one hand down, trailing through coarse hair until it reaches Greg’s cock, where he makes a tight circle of his fingers at the base.

“You can even be rough about it, if you like.”

His tongue laps over the head, sweeping up the precum leaking there, his eyes looking darkly up at Greg’s face, a little smile on his lips as he wraps his mouth around the whole of it.

 

*

 

As he watches Mycroft's mouth slowly swallow his cock, Greg's expression floods. He can't look away. He needs this, needs those eyes, needs the feel of Mycroft's hair between his fingers as he shakes. It's been twelve nights since they were together this way. All twelve nights he's laid in bed in the darkness, restlessly rubbing himself with a hand, straining, making his quiet sounds to no-one as thoughts of moments like this ripple through his mind. 

Now it's happening, and it's so good he almost can't bear it.

The things Mycroft murmurs - the way he strokes Greg's stomach, quietening him - the way he makes this feel somehow thrilling and soothing at once - it's enough to break his heart. 

_ Oh, fuck. Safe. Safe and... fuck - going down on me -  _

_ Fuck - fuck -  _

Mycroft's mouth feels warm and slick and slow. Greg can't help it - he winds his fingers anxiously through Mycroft's hair, gently holding, panting as he just feels for a moment. His lover, sucking his cock. Licking up his wetness. His lover's bed, comfortable beneath him, and they're alone together, and they have all night. 

Greg lets his head drop back, a gentle flump against the covers.  _ Fuck. _

Fingers trembling, he begins to pet Mycroft's hair in the rhythm he'd like - slow and steady - a rhythm he remembers from almost two weeks ago. The thought of Mycroft's cock sliding into his mouth again makes his breath hitch. His sounds increase in pitch, and he stirs against the covers as pleasure starts to course through his lower body.

"S-Shit - ohh... oh,  _ fuck _ \- f-feels good..." Gasping, the words tumble from his mouth. "Oh fuck, Mycroft - please - "

 

*

 

“Mmmmmhmm.” 

It’s a choice to let his throat vibrate, let it filter up to Greg’s cock as his mouth slips around it and takes it steadily deeper. 

_ “Please” _ is working exceptionally well for him. Mycroft can feel his own length, still trapped in pants and unzipped trousers, making its presence known with every gentle shift against the sheets, with every sound Greg makes, coherent or not. 

_ Not yet, _ he tells himself. 

_ Soon. _

He strokes his fingers over Greg’s stomach soothingly, runs his hand down lower, brushing the inside of his thighs, just feeling. Then he glides it up, tracing over the tightening balls, and landing one finger against the perineum, stroking just a bit more firmly, questing just a bit into the crease beyond.

“Yes?” he asks, pulling just enough to manage it, his breath hot over the spread of his own saliva. “More?”

 

*

 

_ Oh Jesus. _

Greg's brain reels; his heart pounds.

His inner thighs tighten with his breath.  _ Oh Jesus, yes. _

He's not felt a questioning touch there for more years than he can put a number to. He can't remember the last person. He doesn't want to. He doesn't care who they were. They've been vaporised into eternity now, and all he wants is Mycroft there. 

"M-More," he moans, softly - he doesn't mean his cock. "Oh,  _ fuck. _ Yes."

The  _ 'yes'  _ isn't just to Mycroft. It's to every wild thought now racing through Greg's head, every imagined intimacy that could become real before the morning. 

He wants them all. He wants the things he hasn't thought of, too - the things in Mycroft's head. 

Stirring, forcing himself to lift his head, Greg looks down his own body into Mycroft's eyes. 

He flushes, deeply.

"I -  _ want _ you," he manages, and it's the closest he can come to saying it. "I want - f-fuck, I..."

 

*

 

Mycroft’s eyes grow dark. 

_ Oh, god, Greg. You’re too perfect. _

“You can have me, Greg.” He bends his head and laps while his hand briefly- almost regretfully- departs Greg’s skin to reach over to the nightstand and hunt by feel for a bottle inside. He compensates for the lack of touch with an eager mouth and a slow, steady bob. 

When he comes up with the bottle- taking too long, he’s sure, though it must only be a span of seconds- he slicks his fingers and presses gently between Greg’s cheeks, stroking, getting familiar. 

His own hips are gently rutting against the bed in anticipation- he’d be embarrassed over such a display, but he’s past that, he  _ needs _ this,  _ needs _ Greg, needs his moans and  _ want _ to tell him that he in turn is  _ needed _ .

A single finger slips close, toying, making gentle circles until he’s sure Greg is suitably relaxed. Mycroft is sure to lift his eyes to Greg’s face- he wants to watch this, watch as he pushes in to the first knuckle.


	15. Chapter 15

_ Oh fuck.  _

_ Oh, fuck - in me - please -  _

Greg's knuckles whiten where he grips the sheets. There's no pain - just need. This is happening. The anxiety is real and it's sharp, but it's washed away by the force of how much he wants it. 

He gazes into Mycroft's eyes, panting, and fragility flickers over his face - but comfort rises up at once in its wake.  _ Mycroft.  _ Eye contact - closeness - patience. He knows he could say stop if he needed, and it would stop at once, but he doesn't want to. He wants to have this. He feels safe.

He wants Mycroft to stroke his thighs apart - _ oh, fuck -  _ nuzzle at him - fill him - share his body and share their breath and fuck him here,  _ now, _ the first time, tonight. He wants to feel it tomorrow. He wants to see Mycroft's face as he gets to fuck Greg however he likes - slow, hard, fast, easy. He wants it enough to moan for it, wordless, shivering with Mycroft's cautious first intrusion into his body.

It's fine; it's easy to take. Greg settles quickly, huffing his assent - then with a blush, draws his legs back.  _ 'Well-behaved',  _ he thinks. The position feels so submissive it makes his breath shallow. 

His eyes flash softly into Mycroft's, full of trust.  _ Take me. Please. I want to be fucked, and I want you to do it. _

 

*

 

_ Oh good lord- fuck-  _

Mycroft doesn’t even have to ask and Greg shifts into the most convenient position, blushing and willing. It takes a significant amount of self-restraint not to just take him right there, but he is  _ considerate _ , and Greg is beautifully, sinfully tight.

The last is something he cannot even contemplate too much, on the off chance that he’ll just come straight into his trousers.

Which, actually, he ought to be rid of- he carefully shimmies his way out of them and his pants just before he gently presses the first finger the rest of the way in. He’s watching Greg again, eyes alight with a sort of possessive wonder, when he slowly begins to work it in and out, his own cock beginning to ache with  _ want _ .

_ God you’re lovely. Want to have you- want to make you feel- make you come- _

He shifts up, kissing over Greg’s stomach, nudging his legs wider with his shoulders. “You can hang on to me, if you like.”  _ Wrap your legs around me if it helps. Dig those nails into my back. Whatever you like.  _ A second finger strokes the outside of Greg’s hole now, testing but gentle. “More?”

 

*

 

The sensation of in-and-out overwhelms Greg for a moment; he has to break the eye contact just to cope. He tips his head back against the bed, shivering, and his breath hitches in an urgent moan. His thoughts gasp themselves from his mouth.

"Ohh -  _ fuck -  _ like that - I w-want that - " 

The feeling of Mycroft easing closer between his legs is enough to make his body clench tight around Mycroft's finger, his face flushing with excitement.  _ 'You can hang on to me, if you like.'  _ Greg takes the invitation as soon as it's offered, shaking as he holds onto Mycroft. His hug is a little tight, loose enough to still allow the play of fingers between his thighs; his knees grip Mycroft either side. He can feel the second finger stroking, checking, and he breathes in hard.

"Y-Yes - more - please - "

As the second finger eases in, Greg realises with a jolt of the heart  _ exactly _ how long it's been. He stiffens, hands twitching on Mycroft's back, and makes himself draw a deep breath.

"I-I'm okay," he gasps. "I'm okay, just..." Brown eyes, rounded, glittering with pleasure and panic, seek Mycroft's in search of reassurance. "Been a while since..." 

Greg tries a flash of nervous humour, flushing. 

"B-Be gentle with me?" he whispers.

 

*

 

_ Always.  _

“Yes,” Mycroft breathes, not quite trusting himself to say more. “Of course, just- tell me-”

He’s slow and steady, keeping up a delicate rhythm as he sees Greg through the stretch of it, shifting up a bit more and sighing when his own throbbing cock brushes Greg’s arse-cheek.

“One more?” The curve of his fingers shifts as he feels Greg yield more to him, searching as they work for-  _ hmm, there? _

His throat nearly closes on him with subverted desire, his body is so desperate to get the attention he’s been depriving it of, because Greg is just so lovely.

_ And pliant. _

Mycroft swallows.

“Or are you- ready?”

 

*

 

Greg shudders, pressing his lips to Mycroft's jaw. He knows there's going to be discomfort, no matter how long they do this - he knows the pain will ebb. He also knows he'll pass out soon if he doesn't get to feel what it's like having Mycroft fill him. 

Tightening his grip quietly on Mycroft's back, his words leave his throat soft and low. These are just for Mycroft to hear: no-one else in the world. They're breathed against Mycroft's neck, as Greg's body contracts softly around his lover's fingers.

"I need you. I... n-now. M'not kidding. I need this."

He lowers his hand between them, following Mycroft's stomach downwards until he finds coarse hair and the firm length of his lover's cock. His fingers wrap; he grazes his mouth longingly over the corner of Mycroft's jaw.

"I w-want you inside me," he breathes, squeezes Mycroft's cock and starts to stroke, slow. "Please. Pin me down and fuck me. Pull me onto your lap. Let me ride you. Let me ride you 'til I'm exhausted and I can't breathe. Pull me onto my hands and knees, and pull my hair. Anything. Whatever you want.  _ Everything  _ you want. Just be inside me and we'll work the rest out."

He shifts to draw his legs around Mycroft's waist, crossing his ankles at his lover's lower back.

"D-Don't make me wait anymore. I can't cope another second not fucking you, Mycroft. I  _ need  _ you. Please."

 

*

 

Mycroft lets out a strangled, needy noise.  _ Oh fuck- fuck- god, Greg-  _ Some of that might have been out loud, either way his mouth is left open, looking at Greg with wide, dark eyes and a sense of wonder.

It’s shattering in the best way, being spoken to like that, with open, honest  _ need _ . A need for  _ him, _ for  _ Mycroft.  _ His cock is aching, dampening quickly in Greg’s strong hand. What’s left of his self-control melts. Distantly he’s aware of reaching for the lube, and muttering something mostly coherent along the lines of “S’been tested” in honor of his one remaining functional brain cell that wants him to indicate that he is safe without a condom. 

He drizzles himself in silicon- it almost wrenches a sob from him when Greg’s hand strokes over him, spreading it. 

Tilting forward, his hand shaking as he lines up, he presses a shuddering, desperate kiss to Greg’s lips.

But his eyes are open, his own need writ across his face when he finally starts to push home- no change in position required, Mycroft can’t bear the thought of moving from where he’s been wrapped by Greg’s legs.

“Greg- I- god, Greg-”

 

*

 

No condom.  _ Fuck. Yes.  _ Greg doesn't have the capacity in this moment to understand why he wants that. It's something about  _ just skin.  _ It's something about the thought of Mycroft coming inside him, feeling it, those last few strokes of sex growing wet. Panting, he manages to express, "Me too..." And that's it: trust. It doesn't need any more than that.

Mycroft's cock is steel-hard and slick in Greg's grasp, hot to the touch. The feel of it makes him ache.  _ Want to come. Come with you in me. Come around you.  _

He kisses Mycroft in equal desperation as they find their way together, shaking, a warm mess of hands and fingers guiding Mycroft into place. He feels the head of Mycroft's cock finally nuzzle there, and he realises this is it - first time - their first fuck, first  _ ever, _ and he's on his back in Mycroft's bed, panting in urgent need and so desperate to feel Mycroft stretching him apart that he can't breathe. He doesn't know if he's about to come or cry. It feels like both.

His breath hitches as Mycroft starts to push. 

_ Ahh - Christ - fuck -  _

_ Breathe - _

He tightens his legs -  _ don't you dare fucking stop -  _ and digs his nails into Mycroft's back, shaking finely, breathing in as Mycroft sinks deeper. He opens his eyes to find his lover gazing at him. 

The look of need imprints itself at once onto Greg's soul. 

_ Fuck. Fuck, you -  _

_ You need -  _

_ Oh fuck, you want -  _

Trembling, he searches Mycroft's eyes. Discomfort and enjoyment tighten Greg's expression in equal measure, and the grip of his thighs is determined - this is happening. He releases a hand from Mycroft's back, reaches up to cup his jaw and strokes across his cheek, breathless, his pupils blown and his lip reddened where he's bitten in.

"Fuck," he whispers. His heart strains. "F-Fuck - I..."  _ Oh fuck, filling me. Pushing into me.  _ "I need you. I mean it - I need you."

 

*

 

Mycroft moans openly- there will be marks, tomorrow, along his back, and he’s grateful for them, grateful for what they mean. “Need-  _ fuck- _ I need you too-”

He presses in deeper, shuddering by the time he’s sheathed to the base. Nuzzling his cheek against Greg’s hand, he breathes- to calm himself, to give Greg time to adjust- it’s all almost too heady, this shared passion. How is he meant to go back to being the British Government after this? Mycroft doesn’t know that man, he only knows his bed and Greg within it, and him within Greg. Nothing else in the world exists.

An inhale, and though his lungs are straining he knows the throb spreading from his tightening balls is more urgent.

Mycroft pulls his hips back, steadily, letting out a hiss at the feeling of that tight, slick envelopment.

The feeling of pushing back in almost wracks him. His hands slide under Greg’s shoulders, hanging on nearly for dear life. 

“Greg-”

No other lover has been so affecting- very few have been to his house. His bed. Had even the start of the trust necessary for him to be anything but entirely in control at all times.

Greg is entirely different. 

He’s gibbering, and he doesn’t care. This is only for Greg, Greg is the only one who can hear. 

“So perfect- Greg- you’re perfect- t-taking me- so good-”

 

*

 

Greg's fingers slide up to card through Mycroft's hair, gathering him close. He wants every single inch of their skin to touch while they do this. He feels like he won't survive without it. His heart's on the point of rupture, and Mycroft's gasped words are perfect. They're the safe shelter he needs to relax. The words turn this from sex into bonding, and Greg feels like he's breaking apart with it, panting quietly as Mycroft takes him.

He swallows, brushing Mycroft's hair with his fingers. His other hand rests, trembling, on Mycroft's lower back. He wants to feel every push inside him. His chest heaves as he breathes.

A minute for the pain to ease; a few minutes more for it to start feeling good. 

When it comes, the pleasure comes deep and sudden and so intense it's almost too much, contracting through Greg so strongly he starts to tremble. His softer moans of encouragement kick at once into whimpers. His face tightens, digging his teeth into his lip, and it feels like only minutes before the steady pushing against his prostate raises a warning tingle in his lower back. 

Tightening his arms around Mycroft, he drags in a breath and gasps.

"Stop - s-stop, stop..." The flush of his face, the wildness of his eyes and the roughness of his breathing tell their own story. He squirms beneath Mycroft, pushing up onto his elbows, and with no small amount of strength he manages to tip them over sideways onto the bed. 

Losing Mycroft from inside him, however briefly, is almost distressing in its intensity - but it's not staying that way for long. Greg nudges Mycroft onto his back, panting, and climbs astride his thighs. 

Reaching down, he finds Mycroft's cock - still slick, warm with the heat from Greg's own body - and guides him slowly back inside.

The moment's pause has taken the edge of the pressure beautifully. As he settles on Mycroft's cock, groaning softly under his breath, Greg realises he's biting his lip again. He didn't even notice he did it until Mycroft mentioned it. Now it seems he can't stop doing it.

Looking down at his lover, his eyes dark and soft, hands braced on Mycroft's thighs behind him, Greg gives him a breathless smile.

"You okay?" he says, and very gently starts to move - an easy, shallow and slow roll of his hips, the barest friction around Mycroft's cock, almost comforting in its rhythm. 

 

*

 

The first word of _ stop _ and Mycroft feels a flicker of panic, that he’s done something wrong, hurt Greg in some way- he’d never forgive himself- but one careful look over Greg’s face assures him it is entirely the opposite.

He’s not quite expecting it when Greg tilts them- he’s strong, even if he masks it in gentleness- Mycroft clutches at the sheets when he ends up on his back, Greg straddling him, working his cock back into sensitive warmth.

_ God, biting his lip and riding me. I may expire. _

A low moan escapes him. 

He runs his hands up Greg’s thighs, taking in the view above him. He can’t help but smile in return, shifting his hips just a bit to give Greg the best possible leverage. 

“Mmmhm- yes-” The soft, roiling motion makes him gasp. “You’re amazing, you know….”

His hands wander up, crossing as much skin as they can reach, like he’s appraising a sculpture. Greg looks perfect, and Mycroft must himself look a wreck, hair askew and flushed with pleasure. Yet Greg still seems to  _ want _ him.

_ Perhaps I’ve died already and landed in heaven by accident. _

“Simply amazing, Greg….”

 

*

 

Greg's head tips back, a grin breaking across his face as Mycroft strokes up his body. He leans back to let Mycroft see him, touch him, watch his body as he slowly rises and falls on Mycroft's cock. This angle is satisfying, deep and easy, and the softer pleasure isn't so frantic - he's aware of his own breathing again, aware of what he's feeling, aware of how fucking _perfect_ it is to have Mycroft between his thighs.

This  _ is _ amazing.

_ Lie there. Just lie there, gorgeous. Lie there and let me look after you.  _

As he pulls his head forwards again, groaning low in his throat, Greg shivers at the sight of his lover resting beneath him. He's never been so turned on at just the thought of who he's fucking. He usually needs more - details, sensations, effort - comfort to relax him - but just Mycroft is enough. This is heaven. 

"Fuck, you feel good..." he whispers, grips Mycroft's thighs and grinds down - a little harder, just once, gasping as he does. He then eases back to slow with a shiver. "Y-You're just right...  _ fuck..." _

The pattern is easy and enjoyable to repeat - slow, slow, slow,  _ hard,  _ slow, slow,  _ hard.  _ Greg finds himself watching Mycroft's face in anticipation of each deeper grind, playing his lip between his teeth, realising with growing spikes of excitement that he feels playful. He feels sexy. He'd forgotten sexy. It was gone, gone beneath all the grief - gone beneath the far greater body of evidence he was old, tired and no good anymore. He was a pervert if he wanted comfort, a loser if he made his peace, and lonely. 

Now he just feels  _ good. _

It's the weekend, he's staying over with his lover, and they're gazing at each other as they slow-fuck. He's going to wake up here in the morning. There's going to be breakfast. He's not leaving here until he's seen Mycroft come at least twice, and he'll be texting Mycroft within fifteen minutes of saying goodbye.

"Good, gorgeous?" he whispers, his heart pounding, as he drops his hips in another deep grind.

 

*

 

Mycroft lets out a gasp. Greg’s sense of timing- those varied thrusts, slow as they might be- may break him. “Good- god- yes-”

He lets his head drop back, catching his breath, letting his mind deglaze even as his muscles are coiling in anticipation of the next wave. His hands have come to rest on Greg’s hip, not forcing or guiding but simply enjoying and grasping when those deep thrusts make him moan.

And Greg keeps grinning at him and biting his lip.

_ Oh, you’ve a nefarious streak. I like it. _

“Lord, you’re doing that deliberately now, aren’t you.” Mycroft reaches up, brushes his thumb over Greg’s lip. “Hellion.”

_ My hellion. _

The thought occurs to him slowly, and he smirks to himself. The next time Greg drives himself deeply down, Mycroft braces against the urge to entirely lose his mind and wraps his arm around Greg’s waist, pushing up so their skin touches, Greg’s cock pinned between them. He looks up as he bites into Greg’s chest, leaving another mark on his pectoral, small but definitely present.

_ I can be a hellion too. _

He smiles up in satisfaction as he leans back to admire his work, his tongue flicking over his lip.

 

*

 

Greg's tongue flashes out to lick the pad of Mycroft's thumb as soon as it's offered, his eyes flickering with enjoyment. 

_ Hellion. _

He already wants a tattoo.

The bites will do for now, though - and as Mycroft rewards him with another one, Greg's head drops back and he groans. He hisses through his teeth, a fragmented mess of  _ "Yesssss - ",  _ and drives his hips down hard to hold Mycroft inside him as he's marked.  _ Fuck me up, this is getting primal -  _

_ Fuck - I want it -  _

_ I want all of it - _

"Jesus - s-shit, I..." He shudders, gazing down at that satisfied smirk, that flick of tongue. His heart tightens. "Mmh. Fuck." Inhaling, leaning his weight forwards with a hand placed at each of Mycroft's shoulders, he holds his lover's eyes and starts to rock again - slow, feeling his way into this angle, enjoying the slide of Mycroft's cock inside him. Pleasure aches in his expression.

"I love this," he breathes, panting. "W-With you. I... I love - oh fuck, Mycroft, this  _ feels... fuck,  _ I love fucking you - "

 

*

 

_ Oh my god.  _

Mycroft has to brace himself, one hand twisting into the sheets behind him, because this angle, being so close to every little shift of pleasure along Greg’s face, the way he holds Mycroft’s eyes, is  _ really _ doing things for him. 

He strokes his other hand up and down Greg’s back, letting his fingers drift opposite Greg’s rhythm, just keeping up an endless stream of  _ contact. _

_ Fuck, this is incredible- _

And Greg is just so  _ joyous _ about it, not trying to perform anything just because he thinks Mycroft wants it but genuinely happy to be riding him. To be  _ with  _ him. Words like “love” slipping from his lips, even in this context, sounding like a symphony.

“Fuck- Greg, you- nnf- feel amazing…  _ fuck _ \- you ride me so- perfectly-”

He can feel the first twinge of warning, a little pulse that hits his spine and makes his mouth open in a brief, wordless cry, his cock aching for him to let himself fall.

_ Not yet- not yet- _

He could ask Greg to slow down, ask him to stop, but he doesn’t  _ want to _ , he just wants to feel- everything-

“Oh god, Greg-”

His hand wanders lower and makes a ring about Greg’s length, letting Greg’s own rocking fuck into it. There’s still enough silicon on it to make his cock just slick, just smooth enough to take out the friction.

_ God, yes, let me feel you. _

 

*

 

"Oh -  _ Christ - " _

Pleasure burns its way through Greg's entire lower body, his hands clenching tight at Mycroft's shoulders.  _ Fuck - slick - good. Fuck. Good...  _ it's easy to build it into his movements, rocking down onto Mycroft's cock and then forwards into the snug ring of his hand, and in only a few repetitions the urge to  _ fuck,  _ to speed up and thrust and chase and  _ come,  _ overwhelms Greg with a groan. He starts to pant.

He looks down into Mycroft's face, wild-eyed, and sees it there.  _ Now. Yes, now.  _ Mycroft wants this, too. He wants to come. Seeing it written across his lover's face is the most arousing sight Greg could even imagine in this moment, and the look of longing that wracks his features comes straight from the soul.

"Fuck..." he whispers, shaking. "Fuck - yes - "

_ Now. Harder now. Let go now. _

Reaching down, wrapping his shaking fingers over Mycroft's on his cock, he grips his lover's shoulder harder and starts to move like he means it - quick and hard and deep slams of his hips, firm, fucking himself forwards over and over. Pleasure at once scatters across Greg's face. His expression scrunches, his mouth opens and he cries out, his body tightening, a stream of gasped pleas and pleasure pouring from his mouth. 

_ Fuck, fuck - fuck - want to come. Need to come. Need. Fuck. _

His grasp tightens around Mycroft's. 

_ Soon. Soon. Don't let go. There, just there. Don't change. Don't change. _

He watches Mycroft's face as their sex grows hard and fast and restless, panting, his thighs shaking with every slam. Mycroft's cock is heaven. He wants to come clenching around it. He wants to feel full. He wants wetness, too - wants Mycroft coming underneath him, writhing - wants that, needs that.

Greg starts to whimper.

"Come for me," he gasps, begging, as he gazes into Mycroft's eyes. His cock pulses. "Fuck. Come in me. _ Please." _

 

*

 

“Oh fuck- fuck- Greg-“

The urge to come is overwhelming. Mycroft simply cannot comprehend the intensity of looking at Greg- into his desperate eyes, feeling the sweet friction of the increase in his pace- it’s all beautiful, and too much, and Mycroft is already half done in by the time his brain registers the  _ words.  _

_ In you- yes- lord, yes- _

His grip on Greg’s cock tightens in a subconscious pulse- Greg’s hand over his feels so intimate, so serene, like they really are just one passionate organism chasing their release.

“Yes- yes, fuck... ride me- Grrre-”

His orgasm tips over the line- he can’t stop it now and he doesn’t want to- not with Greg so- so lusciously  _ riding _ him, like he  _ wants-  _ he  _ needs- _

_ Oh, god, Greg- _

The wave starts to ripple through him. Mycroft whimpers as he starts to shake. His face constricts- everything constricts- he feels his muscles shaking with the force of it- his hand tenses in the bedding.

“Greg- I- I’m-“

His throat tightens and he loses the rest to a choked sob as he comes in spurts of pleasure, quaking between Greg’s legs, entirely wrecked by the force of it.

 

*

 

Oh,  _ fuck -  _ that feeling - his lover shaking, whimpering, coming. The rupture of fresh heat inside Greg feels like everything he's ever wanted, and the last few driving thrusts are wet and slick. Watching Mycroft come is incendiary. It's perfect.

Coming with him is as easy as drawing breath - one final gasp of air to blow the spark into flame. 

Greg falls apart just watching, gripping Mycroft's shoulder hard and arching low as heat and pressure bloom from somewhere deep. It sears through every inch of his body in a flash. He cries out, his thighs contracting, and as he feels himself start to come through Mycroft's fingers he desperately fucks out his climax between them - spilling himself, wave after wave, panting full-pelt. Mycroft's sounds only drive the pleasure higher, hotter, tighter. He comes squeezing around Mycroft's cock, moaning with the force of it, the  _ relief  _ of it, and for several seconds Greg is nothing but a ringing wave of sensation. 

When he comes back to himself, he's still panting. His thighs are shaking, and his heart pounds like a sledgehammer. Mycroft's stomach and chest are painted in stripes of his come; his lover is subsiding beneath him, drifting free of the throes.

Greg gazes down at Mycroft, his pupils huge, flushed and exhausted and so satisfied he could melt across the bed.

_ "Fuck..."  _ he groans, dragging in a breath. The insides of his thighs are aching like they'll never stop. "Ohh - oh, my  _ God..." _

 

*

 

Mycroft blinks hazily. At some point he’d fallen onto his back, but in the blissful fog of his post-orgasmic haze he can’t be sure when exactly. No matter. He can still feel the tingle of Greg’s fingers where they’d held tight onto his shoulders. 

He’s decorated in strands that mark him as Greg’s that shift with each heaving inhale, his body’s effort to try and balance itself- not to much avail, he feels like he’s run a marathon and shaved off at least five years of age in the process.

“Fuck.”

He hadn’t been awake enough to appreciate this bit the last time, the come-down, the urge to simply hold one’s lover until everything rights itself. His hand brushes over Greg’s knee, that sweat-dampened but perfect skin, the shift of hair over it. Greg is almost glowing with exertion compared to what is surely a more ruddy shade on Mycroft. 

“God, you’re beautiful.”

It takes him a second to realize he’s said that out loud, at which point his skin shifts to a more definitively reddened shade. 

_ Oh, no- he’ll think I’m some manner of ardent fool, too easily swept up in him…. _

He swallows. Mycroft is less familiar with this sort of open feeling that comes after- he’d always cleaned up and left. Or they’d cleaned up and left. Very, very few men ever shared his bed and given him the luxury of a relaxing embrace after. 

_ I’m not ready to stop touching him. _

“Ah- I’ve some towels set out, but… lay with me for a bit?”

 

*

 

_ 'Beautiful'. _

Greg's grin shines from the whole of his face. 

He leans down slowly, gently, careful with his weight on top of Mycroft. He doesn't want to hurt - not in this moment - not even by accident, not ever. 

He presses his lips to his lover's, closing his eyes. 


	16. Chapter 16

The kiss is deep and slow, and every bit as intimate as sex. They kiss until Greg's jaw aches, until their breathing has settled and nature takes its course. As Mycroft slips from his body, Greg shivers and cups his face.

_Just want to be with you. One body with you. Touching you._

_Fuck, I haven't felt like this in years..._

It's easy to roll his weight gently to the side, drawing his arms around Mycroft's bare body at once. He feels like he's been released from something - some weight that suddenly just isn't there. It's gone. He didn't even realise it was hanging over him until this moment. He feels like his veins are full of sunlight, and he doesn't think twice before touching Mycroft - stroking back his hair, kissing softly at his jaw, wrapping their legs together just to feel more skin.

_'Lay with me for a bit.'_

Greg never wants to get up. They'll just stay here in this moment, he thinks - kissing each other, their bodies still warm, bonding quietly after sex. He can feel Mycroft between his thighs; his own come is messy between them and damp, to the point that even a shower might be best before bed.

_Just a few minutes more._

Stroking his thumb between Mycroft's lips, with a final soft kiss, Greg slowly opens his eyes. He gazes at Mycroft over a distance of just a few inches, their noses nearly touching, their breath shared.

Smiling - more content than he can ever remember being - Greg murmurs,

"You're beautiful, too. You're - smart, and funny, and interesting... just being with you makes me happy. I can't get enough of you. Want to see you all the bloody time..."

He feels his heart squeeze inside his chest.

"Is that alright? Tell me, if it's not..."

 

*

 

Mycroft’s breath catches. Greg is holding him, petting him, _kissing_ him- god, how did he let himself _sleep_ the last time when he could have had this already? He didn’t know this was even an option, this much- affection- _after_ sex.

_He doesn’t care that we’re a mess. He still wants to touch me._

_I still want to touch him._

His heart aches with joy.

Greg speaking with him, so close, looking in his eyes- complimenting- it makes his throat hurt, he’s so affected- not that he’s said it, but that he _means it_.

_He’s so honest._

Of all those words, only one is said to him with any frequency, and ‘smart’ is usually also followed by ‘prick’ or ‘bastard’ when people think he can’t hear them. It’s a bit stunning to hear it next to ‘beautiful’ and ‘interesting’.

_You can manage a few words, Holmes, come on._

He nods as he pulls himself together, eyes on Greg. “Yes. I- like it. I like… you. I… think about you a lot as well.”

“Suppose we… could try to coordinate during the week? As much as the jobs allow. Lunch… or the cafe… I don’t fancy myself an exceptional cook, but… carryout dinner, maybe, and a film....”

 

*

 

Nervousness - shyness - after all this time, all Mycroft's confidence and authority, all his calm. Greg watches it in wonder as it unfolds, his gaze soft, stroking Mycroft's cheek. He realises he's seeing something rare.

This is new to Mycroft - the warm peace of two people who've made love. He's not usually here for these moments.

 _Used to sex,_ Greg thinks. _Not to intimacy._

His heart stirs. It feels like it's growing, expanding inside his chest, as if some iron cage he didn't realise was there has just been struck off. His soul is breathing.

Mycroft's here, and he's close. They're intimate.

It's new for both of them.

_Learn with me, beautiful. We'll share it. Just you and me... just like this. However we want._

Eyes shining, Greg brushes back a little of Mycroft's tousled hair. He looks so good like this. He's unrecognisable as the person with the threatening suits; he's a human soul, and he's beautiful, and in this moment he belongs to Greg.

"I'd love that," he murmurs. "All of that... honestly, I - wouldn't ever turn down the chance to see you." He bites his lip, his eyes softening with honesty. "Got it kinda bad for you. I know it's probably not a surprise, I just..."

He draws a deep breath, pulling Mycroft a little closer. He nuzzles into his neck.

"I had a rough year," he mumbles. "Rough few years. You - feel like a bit of a miracle. I feel new with you... new and - _good_ about myself. I feel real."

_Christ, don't let me be taking this too far... don't let me be wrecking it. Not now._

"I - k-kinda want to be together. I know you're busy, and - and I know you've got a lot on... I just think you're wonderful. Never known anybody like you. I'd love to - be yours. Even if nobody knows for a while... so long as _you_ knew..."

He hesitates, his fingers curling gently at Mycroft's back.

"That'd be amazing," he murmurs, as he closes his eyes. He presses a kiss to Mycroft's shoulder. _"You're_ amazing."

 

*

 

It feels wonderful, just being held like this. Mycroft leans into it, presses his cheek to Greg’s shoulder, and slides his arm under Greg’s.

_He wants to be… together. Formally. Dating, or partners. Boyfriends._

He nods, his cheek sliding over the flesh he feels so protected and safe beside.

“I would like that. I… want that.” He swallows. “I want… to be yours too, Greg. I think you’re- just spectacular. I don’t care who knows- I would take you everywhere with me, if I could.” Mycroft brushes his nose over the mark he left on Greg’s neck. “Suppose I already knew I wanted to call you mine….”

_But there’s all the rest. All the rest that comes with dating… me._

He sighs, eyes closing. “You should know- dating- me… is difficult. There’s paperwork- honestly, paperwork- for any formal arrangements. There’s a chance of coming home to find someone in your flat, checking for- security issues.”

_I don’t want to scare you off… but I understand if you don’t want this._

Mycroft is holding onto Greg now, pressed close, the line of his arm drifting up Greg’s back, his fingers brushing the base of his hairline. 

_Please stay. I want you to stay._

“There are _two_ authorized panic rooms in this house. There are protocols for when I’m supposed to use them. A lot of people work very hard to my name and my face unassociated with my position, but sometimes it’s necessary, so the risk is unavoidable. You would be taking that on too.”

He pulls his head back, tilting so he can see Greg’s face, fully expecting to see that Greg has rethought this, that he wants to leave.

“I want to be with you. Greg, I want to make you happy. Endlessly happy. I just- don’t want you to go in blind.”

 

*

 

As Mycroft speaks, Greg listens. He responds to the gentle contact with touches of his own - slow, easy, just stroking Mycroft's arm as he takes in what's being said. This isn't something to brush aside.

And he knows enough about Mycroft to know none of this is being exaggerated.

Paperwork. Security checks. Panic rooms. Two weeks ago, he wouldn't have believed it. He's suspected for a while that Mycroft is high level; he now has a creeping suspicion that 'high level' might not even cover it. Mycroft is off the scale. He's a big deal. He's maybe even a scarily big deal. Greg would be an idiot if he just batted that aside without a thought, telling himself it wouldn't affect anything.

Mycroft pulls back; Greg gazes gently into his eyes.

_Christ... look at you..._

It takes only a few seconds to come to a decision.

Greg's heart thuds with it; his throat thickens at once.

"Wish I could show you," he murmurs. "What it was like, when..." He drops his eyes, breathing out for a moment. "I w-wasn't happy. Ever. Even the good times never felt like..."

_This._

His arms tighten quietly.

"Honestly, it's - kinda nice to hear the worst at the start... just lay it all out. Look at it like grown-ups. Not discover it year by year, wondering how much worse it can all get."

He hesitates, brushing his fingers over Mycroft's back. All he wants is to slip into the shower together and cuddle; ease beneath the sheets and sleep; wake up tomorrow, and kiss good morning for the first time.

"I get that things might not be easy," he says. "M'not trying to make light of it. But... I don't think I'm scared - so long as you and me have something real. That's what matters to me. I can handle complicated. Mycroft, I'd... rather have complicated with you than easy with someone else... or - easy on my own."

_I want to get serious. God, tell me you understand... give me the serious. Give me all of it. Give me forms to sign. I want to see our names written out together in ink. I want that so much._

Leaning close, Greg brushes his mouth over Mycroft's - just once, a single stroke.

"I want to be with you," he whispers. "Whatever that involves, I'll work around it. I'll handle it. So long as I know that I matter to you... so long as it's real between us. That's all I need. That's all I'll ever need."

 

*

 

_Oh thank god._

“You matter.” Mycroft presses his lips back to Gregs, soft and gentle. “You matter to me. This is real.”

_My Greg. My hellion._

Anthea is going to be wroth- assuming she hasn’t turned up every microphone in the vicinity and is now already filling out the requisite forms. It’s fast. She’ll probably say too fast.

Mycroft doesn’t care.

_I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. I won’t let that slip away._

“Come with me.” He forces himself out of the comfortable embrace, but doesn’t break the contact, just takes Greg’s hand to lead him to the massive en-suite bathroom, and more specifically to the whirlpool tub he’d put in during some fit of hedonism when he was moving in.

“There’s some benefits, of course…” Mycroft says, lightening his tone as he turns the water on and sits on the edge of the tub. “Big enough to get clean in together….”

He presses his lips to Greg’s hand. “I do want to treat you well.”

 

*

 

_Christ._

_Treat me well. Please._

_Treat me like I'm the world._

Shining, Greg steps close. He slips his arms around his lover's shoulders, bringing Mycroft gently into the warmth of his body, and leans down to kiss the crown of his head. It's impossible not to grin in this moment.

"This is perfect... you know that?" He breathes in the scent of Mycroft's hair. _Jesus. My Mycroft. Mine._ "Absolutely perfect... I wouldn't change a single thing right now."

He can't bring himself to let go of Mycroft for even a second. When the bath's run, and they settle into the hot water together, Greg reaches at once for Mycroft's arms. The feeling of cuddling together in the warmth, all bare skin and wet chests, nearly takes his breath. The heat soothes the ache he can feel beginning - sensitives muscles stretched, now sore after making love - it's a discomfort he'll gladly suffer every night if Mycroft lets him.

Stroking his wet fingers over Mycroft's chest, Greg watches his lover with eyes as warm as the water.

"How do you feel?" he murmured. "Right now... what're you thinking?"

 

*

 

Mycroft nestles into the relaxing sensation of the water, the gentle touch of his lover proving to be even more soothing than the most decadent efforts he’d made before at bath oils or bubbles. He’s acquired a flannel and gently slides it over Greg’s shoulders, lathering in idle strokes.

“Comfortable,” he says softly. “I’m thinking… I like that you’re here. I want you to stay. Not just tonight, but- often. Very often. I… didn’t realize I could feel- safer.”

He’s a bit sore, of course- the tired ache in his muscles that comes from exerting himself without any regular sort of activity- but so worth it. It’s already obvious he’s going to sleep better than he has in ages.

“I saw you through the cafe window once. I don’t think I told you that, but- you were the reason I went in, next time I passed.” Mycroft blushes lightly, the pinkish tint against the white of the tub makes his freckles stand out. “I liked your hair.” He reaches out, runs his hand through the silver locks. “Wanted to touch it.”

“I nearly had a heart attack when Marmalade brought you over. Maybe she knew. Though I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me. Not at first, anyway.”

 

*

  


Greg's eyes fog with pleasure as Mycroft washes his shoulders for him. He listens, smiling, his face eventually breaking into a grin, then says,

"Why _wouldn't_ I want to talk to you? Look at you, gorgeous... can't _stop_ talking to you now..." He cups a little water in his hand, tipping it gently over Mycroft's back. There's something about washing each other that feels nearly as intimate as sex. "Think we owe Marmalade quite a lot, don't you? It seems like she sat us down together, and... that was that."

He reaches for a bar of soap on the side, warms it under the water for a moment, then strokes it carefully across Mycroft's shoulders. He puts the bar aside, massages Mycroft's back with both hands to spread the soap, then slips round onto his chest, stroking and gently cleaning.

"I'd like to stay more often, too. I don't mind getting up early... working around your schedule. Whatever helps. You're always welcome at my place, too - better if we're here, I know... keep you safe. All the same."

His eyes brighten.

"Wherever you want to be, I'll come be there with you. I mean it."

 

*

 

_Because you are attractive, and I am… myself._

He smiles at Greg. Greg, who calls him ‘ _gorgeous’_ and means it. Even if Mycroft would disagree, even if he’d say he gets by on charisma and intimidation, if anything. He’s maybe, possibly, _average_ in the best of lights.

And yet for some reason Greg doesn’t see that.

“We do owe her… I wonder if they’d let me purchase some manner of cat tree… toys or food. Donate to the rescue.” Mycroft presses a kiss to Greg’s forearm when his arm passes within range. “We should visit her tomorrow and let her know.” He smiles. “Offer her a bit of bacon.”

Mycroft sighs languidly as any lingering tension leaves his shoulders under Greg’s gentle hands.

“Your flat is closer to my work, as it happens… someone might be by to update your locks.” _Sweep for bugs. Get a camera in the hall._ “We can stay at either… I shall be happy either way. As long as you are with me.”

It’s so cozy that he thinks he might be able to sleep right there in the tub. He runs a shampoo-laden hand through Greg’s hair and follows it with a carefully cupped handful of water, his eyelids starting to drift just a little lower in sleepy relaxation.

“Are you feeling comfortable? Not too sore? I may have been a bit… assertive.” He grins slyly, brushing his hand down Greg’s cheek.

 

*

 

Greg doesn't know why the thought of going to see Marmalade, to tell her their good news, makes him smile so much. _Of course we have to go tell her._ It beams from every inch of him.

_Christ, they've probably got a book of her successes by now. She'll end up with a wall of wedding photographs... 'people set up by Marmalade'..._

She'd love Mycroft's house. The film room. Curling up on the sofa to sleep, happy with a warm blanket and her humans. It makes Greg almost sad to imagine it, how happy she'd be here.

Dispelling the thought, he presses his lips to Mycroft's shoulder.

"Do what you need to my lock," he says, closing his eyes as Mycroft washes his hair for him. Shivers tickle out across his shoulders in the path of the warm water. _Post-sex hair-washing... oh god, this is amazing..._ "Whatever keeps you safe. I don't mind."

He leans into the hand that strokes his cheek, smiling. _Protective of me. Caring._

_Christ, you're gorgeous when you're grin..._

"I'm fine... been a while for me, that's all. I - kinda like assertive. What I need sometimes." Biting his lip, Greg glances down at his own chest - the rosy bite-mark there, and lower down, the one at his hip. He knows he has at least one on his neck as well.

_My partner's bites... my boyfriend. First time we fucked._

Gently he touches the one on his chest. He wants it to be there for days. And when it fades, he wants another one - he wants to wear Mycroft's desire on his body like tattoos. He almost wants people to catch a glimpse of them, memories of their sex. _He wants me. My lover. Last night I belonged to him for a while, and no-one else existed._

_Christ..._

_Christ, why did I ever...?_

It's a huge thing to realise - but it comes all at once, soft as sudden falling snow.

He shouldn't have married Karen.

His parents had liked her. Andy had liked her. That had felt so important. They'd been together for a while, going to endless weddings of her friends together, and she'd started dropping serious hints at him. He'd realised he'd lose her if he didn't - and it was just the natural progression of things, wasn't it? That was the next step after dating for years. He didn't want to separate. He didn't want to be alone - so marriage it was.

The night before, he'd panicked and gotten drunk by himself. _No more boyfriends. Straight now. Forever. Never have that again._ It had felt like a pathetic reason to be afraid, the night before what was meant to be the happiest day of his life. He'd drunk until he could get to sleep, then turned up the next day and blamed his lingering unease on the hangover. It was fine - his part in the proceedings seemed very minor. It felt more like Karen and all her bridesmaids were the ones getting married, centre of attention at every stage, while he hung around somewhere drinking and occasionally got summoned for photographs.

_God... I really didn't see it._

_Thought it was all so normal._

Looking up from his bite-mark into Mycroft's eyes, Greg's face softens.

_Christ. I'm so glad._

He cups Mycroft's jaw, leans close and kisses him. Relief rushes through Greg's heart as their mouths meet, his arms wrapping around his lover's body, pressing close within the comfort of the warm water.

_So fucking glad._

It feels like something new was starting - something amazing. Right now, he can't even see how wonderful it will become. He can only see this little piece, right here, kissing after the first time he's come with Mycroft inside him. It's so perfect he can't believe it.

And the best is still yet to come.

_Christ, I'm falling... I want you. I want everything about you._

_Oh, fuck -_

_Fuck - you want me too -_

Greg's heart heaves, kissing Mycroft with every flicker of the passion and need he feels. This is a brand new start; it's a second chance. He doesn't care how complicated it gets. He wants to go everywhere with Mycroft. He wants to fall so hard and fast he never stops, and he wants to be celebrating on this date years from now.

He pushes his fingers through Mycroft's hair, heart beating hard.

_I'll make you happy._

_I promise. Happier than you ever thought you'd be._

 

**The End**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! You may be wondering "what about Karen?!" or "but what's in Mycroft's secret room?!" and "when will they actually use handcuffs?!"
> 
> All these questions and more will be addressed in the rest of the series. <3 We've had an enormous amount of fun writing this one together, and we can't wait to share how the story unfolds. 
> 
> Thank you so much for leaving your comments and kudos. We're thrilled you enjoyed it. 
> 
> Here's to the next!
> 
> XOXO,  
> Lux and Moth


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